


Hurricane Season

by Brighid45



Series: Discipline [4]
Category: House M.D.
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-02
Updated: 2020-11-25
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:33:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 26
Words: 34,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24506239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brighid45/pseuds/Brighid45
Summary: Part of the Discipline series. Hurricanes bring devastation in their wake. Will House and Dana's relationship survive the storm?Strong language, some sex involving pretty vanilla bondage. If that's not your thing, feel free to pass. Otherwise, a review would make my day, and thanks :)
Series: Discipline [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/579124
Comments: 30
Kudos: 14





	1. Chapter One

_June 1st_

Much later, he’ll remember bits and pieces of the time before whatever happened—well, happened. They tend to come back at odd moments, those fragments: standing on the sidewalk while a cab pulls up; an impatient glance at his watch as he gets settled in with his backpack and cane; the sense of relief that he’s done with consults for a week or two, so he and Gardener can enjoy the early June weather at the cottage next weekend; a bit of inconsequential chit-chat with the cabbie in basic Farsi. And then . . . nothing. There’s a big blank space where memories should be.

But right now, whenever, whatever now is, there are flashes, something like consciousness, that come in odd, jolting pulses. It’s as if he’s at war with himself and everything around him, an endless battle for a return to normalcy, and no one wants him to win. He tries to hang onto those flashes but they elude him until at last he relents, forced to give in to the void.

When he rises out of the darkness once more, he hears familiar sounds--a steady beep and various clicks, soft, mechanized sighs. _Hospital,_ he thinks in a groggy sort of way. The knowledge frightens him. The noises are a sign something bad has happened and he is in trouble, maybe big trouble. He struggles to find some information to tell him what’s going on, but he can’t open his eyes and now he’s exhausted. Against his will, he slips back into the shadows.

After a long time—or it could be only moments, he can’t be sure--he drifts up toward voices around and above him, and recognizes the ritual of taking vital stats, such as it is nowadays . . . but someone has their fingers on his wrist. A small part of him approves. There’s an art to the interpretation of a physical pulse—smooth and steady, thready and weak, bounding, erratic . . . it’s about more than just the numbers.

“Doctor House—if you’re awake, move your hand if you understand me.” He tries, and feels a thermal-weave cotton blanket under his fingertips. “Good—that’s good. Just relax.” The voice is low, a little rough, but quiet and calm in an unforced way that offers an odd reassurance. “You’re doing okay. Pulse and BP are in normal ranges, sat’s at 96.”

This information should relax him; instead, he feels frustration. What the _hell_ is going on? He tries to ask and his breath catches in his chest, makes him cough. A fiery rush of pain slams into his sternum and spreads to his right side, a solid eight on his personal pain scale. Panic makes him fight to escape in a primal reaction, but he’s held down. The hands are gentle, but he can’t move. He tries to open his eyes and manages with the left one, but the right is swollen or bruised shut. Light splinters into his vision and he winces.

“Trust me, you’re in a safe place. You have some cracked ribs and a bruised sternum. If you move around right now you’ll hurt like hell.” The low voice is soothing, but he struggles against the sense of relief on offer.

“What . . . happened?” The words are like sharp gravel and broken glass in his throat. After a moment a cup rim presses gently against his bottom lip. It hurts; somehow he’s gotten hit in the mouth. He’s momentarily diverted by the thought that someone’s beaten him up. _Must have been a big bastard_. But his attention is captured by ice chips as they melt on his tongue. After that it’s a bit easier to swallow, at least.

“Your cab was t-boned outside JFK. You got bounced around the interior pretty hard, but we’ve dealt with the major difficulties.” He feels a slight tug on his arm—an IV, and probably something being injected into the access port. “That’s all you get for now. Rest is the best healer, Doctor House.”

“Don’t,” he tries to say, but it’s too late.

The next chunk of time is taken up with his attempts to come to full consciousness. Each try is unsuccessful; he ends up exhausted. The owner of the low, quiet voice is there most of the time when he surfaces. He gets what amount to bulletin updates: “Vitals are all in the normal range.” “Slight problem with an irregular heartbeat, but it’s settled down.” “You’re making progress. Let us do the heavy lifting a little longer.”

During one period, after another small mouthful of ice chips, he manages to croak “Wils’n.” He has no idea how much time has passed, but the news must have gone out by now. If Wilson knows, Gardener knows too. The fact that neither has appeared at his bedside makes him anxious, though he knows in an intellectual way that if he’s in an ICU it’s likely visitors haven’t been allowed in yet. That tells him whatever’s wrong is _really_ wrong—and that scares him. He needs to _know_ , dammit.

“Doctor Wilson is here. As soon as you’re able to handle visitors he’ll see you.”

“ _Now_.” He forces the word out of his dry throat, and coughs. The pain isn’t quite as bad this time around, but his anxiety rises anyway.

“When you’re ready, Doctor House.” The darkness takes over before he can fight back.

“Hey.”

The sound pulls him out of a light doze. He knows that voice, and tries to open his good eye as he turns his head.

“Just lie still. It’s me—Wilson.”

He longs to say something like “no shit”, but it’s beyond him. Relief floods through his mind, a ridiculous reaction, but he can’t help it.

“I’m glad to see you too.” There’s a smile in Wilson’s words, and something else, some emotion that might be sadness, but isn’t. Greg feels a frisson of real fear now. Something is terribly wrong and no one wants to tell him. “Dana’s here, but they won’t let her come in with me. It might be a little while before you see her.” There is a pause. “I have to go. House . . . I’ll be back.”

The slide into darkness is familiar by now, but despite his anxiety he doesn’t mind quite so much. Wilson is here to keep watch. Gardener won’t be far behind.

When he wakes again, someone holds his hand. He knows that touch well—slender fingers, small palm.

“Greg.” Dana’s voice falls inside him like soft rain. All the terror he’s stuffed down rises up, then subsides a bit. She is here, and that’s all that matters. He frowns a little; so many questions and he can’t ask them, he’s not strong enough . . .

“Give it time, love.” Her clasp tightens just a little. “I’ll come whenever they let me. I’ve got a suite of rooms down the street.”

She tells the truth; she always does. It occurs to him in a distant sort of way that the disruption to her work must be nearly total. He feels concern at this knowledge, but already his little store of energy is drained. If only he could see her . . . He drifts into sleep with the touch of her hand the last thing he knows.


	2. chapter two

“House knows something’s up. But he’s not ready to hear the truth right now.”

Dana lifted her gaze from her cup of coffee. James sat opposite her, his expression somber.

“I don’t think it’s a good idea to keep this information from him.” She set the cup aside. “He needs to know what’s happened.”

“Dana . . .” James sighed and looked down. “You haven’t known House as long as I have. You weren’t there when . . . when things changed.”

“You mean the misdiagnosed blood clot and muscle damage.” She remembered her first meeting with Greg; he’d stood on the platform naked, defiant and awkward, but he hadn’t tried to hide the hideous scar on his thigh. “What happened? I know some of the story, but not all I think.”

“House told you about choosing a medically induced coma instead of amputation?” Dana nodded. “Well—at that point Stacy had the power to make medical decisions for him. When House was put in the coma, Cuddy came to her with a compromise—to remove the dead muscle but keep the leg whole. Stacy . . .” James shook his head. “It was an impossible dilemma for her. If she had let him go the coma route, there was a fairly strong chance he wouldn’t make it. Removing the muscle would lower those chances significantly.”

“But it also destroyed his trust in her.” Dana felt a reluctant sympathy for the other woman. Greg rarely spoke of Stacy, but when he did it was clear he’d truly loved her. No doubt he still did, though his love had been damaged by her actions. Intellectually he’d know she had no good choices; emotionally, that was a different story.

“As far as I’m concerned she didn’t have a choice, but House has never seen it that way. At the time he made life a living hell for Stacy and me and anyone else around him.”

“And is that what this is about? Everyone else’s comfort level?” She couldn’t keep the impatience out of her words.

“Of course not! I just—“ James hesitated, then turned his gaze to her. “He--he won’t take this well, and that’s the understatement of the century.”

“Would you?”

James glared at her. “No, but this is _House_ we’re talking about, dammit! He’ll turn this into a major disaster!”

Dana held back the reply she wanted to make; to antagonize James would serve no purpose. “He has to know. I think he’s ready. He’s been more alert the last couple of visits, and he can talk a bit now so he’s asking questions.”

“Look—if—if you have some . . . some misguided romantic notion of cuddling him into acceptance—“

Dana said nothing for a few moments. She waited until her first impulse to give in to her exasperation had passed. “I have no plans to do anything of the sort. Greg is a human being who’s been through a number of difficult events in his life, to say the least. The fact that he’s still here and functioning says a great deal about his capacity to deal with obstructions. We owe him the chance to learn the truth from people who care about him, rather than a nurse or doctor.” She gave James a direct stare. “If you’re that frightened of his reaction, I’ll do it.”

An emotion flickered through those dark eyes, but Dana caught it before it disappeared: shame and annoyance in equal measure. “I’m . . . I’m his friend. I’ve been on the receiving end before, you haven’t. I’ll do it.”

“We’ll both do it.” She wiped her fingers on her napkin and stood. “Let’s talk to his surgeon.”

James looked up at her, brows raised. “You—you want to— _now_?”

“We need to discuss this with him first. If we get approval to go ahead, then we will.”

The meeting took some time to arrange, but a couple of hours later they sat in a lounge with Adam Becker, the surgeon of record.

“You get five minutes.” He slugged down most of a cup of hot black coffee. Clad in shabby scrubs and a scuffed pair of expensive sneaks, he looked like he hadn’t slept in the last seventy-two hours. “This is about House, right? He’s healing well. What’s up?”

“I believe he needs to be told the full truth about what’s happened.” Dana kept her tone quiet but direct. “He’s been trying to ask questions during the last two visits. In my estimation, holding back information is not wise.”

Becker studied her for a few moments. He swung his gaze to James. “You agree?”

“Not—not exactly. But she’s the expert. I’m just his best friend.”

Dana fought the urge to slap James. “This is not an indulgence on my part. If Greg is asking to know what’s going on, he’s ready. Even for this.”

Becker finished his coffee, tossed the cup in the general direction of a trash can, and stretched as he gave a huge yawn. “Well,” he settled back in his chair, “I saw what was left of the scar from the surgery to remove damaged muscle. Whoever did that procedure should have their license revoked.” He glanced at James. “You were there, from what I understand. How did he handle it?”

“To be honest, he--he freaked out. He ended up leaving his partner and his job—“

“There’s more to it than that!” Dana’s impatience broke through her reserve. “You told me the decision to remove the dead muscle was done without his permission while he was in a medical coma. Tell me you wouldn’t be upset at the very least if you woke up and found yourself permanently disabled and in chronic pain!”

“It was better than him not waking up at all!” James snapped.

“That’s all too easy for you to say, you don’t have to live personally with either condition!”

Becker broke into the exchange. “Yeah okay, I get it. Opposing viewpoints here.” He sat up a bit. “He’s gonna have to know sooner or later. I would suggest you talk to the nurse who’s been keeping an eye on him. Ask for Amos, he’ll know what to do. I only see patients at rounds and usually just after surgery.” His tone of voice indicated he liked the way things were set up. “The nurses are there twenty-four seven.”

It was a dismissal. Both parties stood, thanked the surgeon for his time, and went back to the visitor’s waiting room.

“So—what do we do?” James sat down. He sounded unfriendly and worse, distant. Dana went to the window and looked out over a dismal grey day, full of rain and wind.

“Talk to the nurse as soon as possible.” She closed her eyes for a moment and pushed away the headache she’d had for a week now, the one caused by tears she’d held back the whole time. Later, when she was in the privacy of her home, she would cry. But not now. “I’m going out to see if I can find Amos.”

Twenty minutes later, after Dana had left a note at the nurses station, a woman in floral scrubs poked her head around the waiting room door. “Doctor Wilson? Doctor Gardener? Doctor House is asking for you. He—he knows.”


	3. chapter three

Greg feels a sort of cold amusement as he watches the storm of activity initiated around him, now that he knows what really happened in the accident. The rational observer at his core sees anxious worry in the nurses expressions. There’s no point in freaking out now, the deed is long since done; the beginnings go all the way back to the random blood clot that destroyed a sizable portion of his right quadriceps so many years ago. But another, larger part of him is filled with confusion, fear and rage, and at the moment that’s the part in control.

“Get Wilson!” he growls once more, and struggles to sit. He wants to _see_ , dammit. He needs to _know_.

A few moments later Wilson comes in. He looks exhausted and fearful. Greg feels a peculiar sense of _déjà vu._ “House—what’s going on?”

“You tell me.” He manages to pull himself up a bit and hears monitor alarms go off. “C’mon, Wilson. _Tell me_!”

“House—“Wilson begins, as Gardener enters the room and stops just past the door. She’s lost weight, and her face is pale. Memories crowd in on him—Stacy seated by his bed, her guilt suffocating him . . . His mother—

He shies away from the shades of past pain, and then it all clicks into place. The rational core says something, but he’s too filled with fury and the familiar agony of betrayal to listen. With a deliberate slowness he slides his hand over his hip, what’s left of his thigh, down the blanket to the emptiness where his right leg should be. He pins his stare to Gardener. “You . . . you did this.”

Her eyes widen; an expression of absolute shock moves over her features. No one speaks for a moment. Then she says in her quiet, steady way, “Greg . . . _no_.”

“Get out.” She stands there frozen, all the color gone now from her face. “ _Get out!_ ” he hurls at her, and the nurses close in.

When he wakes up a bit later, Wilson sits by the bed. “You’re an idiot,” he snaps. He sounds fed up and weary, but under it there’s that dark emotion again, the one Greg can’t pin down. “The surgeon made the decision when you were brought in.”

“Don’t lie.” He turns his head away and wishes that the darkness he’s fought against for so long would come now to swallow him up. Of course it doesn’t.

“I’m not! This—this isn’t you and Stacy and that stupid decision!”

“Fuck off.” He can’t do this again, it’ll kill him. Even the thought of it makes him clench up inside on a cold wave of terror, despite the Ativan. He hears Wilson exhale, a long, slow sigh.

“You’re a stubborn ass, so I shouldn’t be surprised by this. But you’re wrong, House. Dana didn’t have a hand in any of this.” 

Greg says nothing; there’s nothing to say. After a while Wilson leaves, and the room is empty. But Greg sees Gardener’s face, the way she goes still as his words slash at her, the shock and absolute anguish in her grey eyes. _Greg . . . no_.

He can hear that little voice deep inside now, there’s no escape. It agrees with Wilson: he’s a fool, he’s jumped to a huge conclusion off the back of an illogical, emotional outburst of fear and pain. Hadn’t he thought earlier that she wouldn’t lie to him? But right now, he doesn’t feel capable of any other response. He’s backed into a corner fighting for his life—at least that’s how he sees things. It’s a ridiculous viewpoint, but again, it’s where he lives at the moment.

The day crawls by. He drifts off now and then, when the morphine pump kicks in. The pain isn’t that bad, but he can’t relax enough to get into anything besides a light doze. Nurses come in to take vitals; they’re silent for the most part, almost like ghosts in their flowery-pastel scrubs. They avoid his gaze and leave as quickly as they can. So the word’s out about his meltdown, and everyone has decided to treat him at a distance, as it were. The knowledge makes him feel even more isolated and alone, so that he snarls at people and can’t concentrate, unable to eat the jello and ginger ale they bring in. He’s stuck in this bed, this room, this new reality, and there’s no escape for the present. It brings back memories he’s done his best to shove into the lockbox at the back of his brain; at times he feels as if he’s been returned to that horrible extended moment, a sort of Groundhog Day repetition in penance for past wrongs he can never amend.

Sometime in the small hours, while Greg clicks through the available tv channels in a useless attempt at distraction, a man enters his room. He’s just under six feet, broad shouldered with a bit of a belly in his plain blue scrubs, topped off with a color-striped cap and a big knot of dreads bundled into it. But he also wears a nice pair of Airpods; a sign of status, especially on graveyard shift. In the quiet it’s just possible to hear the music—sounds like Wynton Marsalis. The guy comes over, takes his pulse even though it’s displayed on the monitor. Greg recognizes that touch.

“Hey,” he coughs because he hasn’t said a word since this morning . . . this morning. The knowledge hits him again and he winces. “Good tunes,” he pushes to get past the memory. “Lemme borrow ‘em for a couple of hours.”

The guy checks his IV, the morphine pump. He says nothing, but after a few moments he takes his phone out of his pocket, removes the buds and places everything on the adjustable table. His gaze meets Greg’s; it’s a mild look, but it holds a query.

“No calls. Promise.” He coughs again. The guy produces a cup of ice chips from the insulated pitcher and offers them. Afterward he checks Greg over, a quick, professional procedure, then he nods and exits the room like a shadow, silent and oddly graceful for a man of his size.

Once he’s gone Greg puts in the Airpods. The track has advanced in the intervening time. Now it’s Miles Davis playing ‘So What’. This is more like it: just him and the music, familiar, cool, brilliant. He closes his eyes and lets the sound flow through his tired mind.

He’s wakened by a light touch on his shoulder. The nurse stands next to the bed. He looks weary now, but still calm. Greg glances at the clock. Almost four hours have gone by—the best sleep he’s had since he entered this nightmare. With reluctance he hands over the phone and paraphernalia.

“Thanks.” He gets a nod. “Uh—your name.” He’s already dubbed the guy Dreads, but knowing his real name is useful all the same.

The nurse puts the phone in his pocket. “Amos.” Yup, it’s the same voice that gave him all those bulletin updates. “You’ve got a visitor.” Greg feels his gut clench. “It’s Doctor Wilson.”

At least it’s not Gardener. “’kay.”

A few minutes later Wilson comes in. He looks tired too. He says nothing though, just sits by the bed.

Greg speaks first. “Need my phone.”

“It was trashed in the accident.”

“Get me a new one. And Airpods.”

“I live to obey.” Wilson hesitates. “Dana would like—“

“ _No_.” He knows he sounds like a petulant five year old, but fuck it.

“House, for god’s sake! She didn’t--”

“I said no.”

Wilson sighs. “Fine. But you’ll regret this.”

Part of Greg knows he’s right; another part doesn’t give two fucks. He’s always been alone, he’ll be alone again. So what.


	4. chapter 4

In a blind urgency Dana pushed through the front entrance of the hospital and made her way to the car. She felt as if she couldn’t breathe. _He thinks I did this_. She saw again the rage and pain in Greg’s battered face as he clutched the blanket over the empty place where his right leg should be. And then she’d found herself outside the unit with a nurse, who’d offered her a paper cup of water and said something about agitation and give the patient time, he’d understand the truth eventually. But she’d seen reality in James’s impassive expression.

She rode the elevator to the top floor of the parking garage in silence. It took a few minutes to find the car; she unlocked it, got in, sat. The airless sensation had retreated a bit but she was still light-headed and shaky, as if someone had sucker-punched her, a hard sharp blow.

 _What do I do now?_ She couldn’t stay at the hospital. It would be better to go to her hotel suite and wait there. But wait for what?

 _I’ll deal with that later._ She started the car, took a deep breath, and backed out of the parking space.

The rooms were quiet when she came in. The maid had cleaned; there was a faint reek of disinfectant. It was the same kind the hospital used, based on the fragrance. Dana noted it in passing and tossed her messenger bag on the couch before she went into the kitchen. The coffee she’d bought the night before still sat next to the sink. She stared down at it, aware she needed a cup, but not sure she was capable of the simple process to make one. To her surprise, a drop of water fell to the counter, followed by another, and then more. She put a hand to her face and felt wetness on her skin. A wave of shame filled her; she couldn’t do this here, out in the open where anyone could come in and see her.

She ended up on the bed, her face pushed into a pillow as the tears leaked out, slow and difficult. After a time they stopped, and she was left with her memory of the time before . . . before. She’d probably think of things this way now, the same as she did after her mother died.

 _(Dana glanced at her watch as she finished notes on her last patient. It was a little after three, and she was more than ready to close up shop early for once. Friday night . . ._ Greg will be home soon _. The knowledge gave her a lift of happiness. They had no plans for the weekend, just a bit of shopping sometime over the next few days, after he’d had a chance to rest. Consults out of town were hard on him; he was often exhausted, irritable and in more pain than usual when he arrived. It took a week for him to recover, though of course he would never admit it._

He needs to see his pain management doctor. _The thought was not a new one. While the TENS unit and meds helped to a large extent, they still couldn’t cover breakthrough pain. It would take more than one visit to adjust the current schedule; Greg would resist the entire process, even though he respected Doctor Theodoropoulis and followed his advice most of the time. He’d had too many bad experiences with prescriptions that hadn’t worked and indifferent follow-up care. She’d suggest it to him anyway, when he was ready to listen._

_On impulse she called him. She generally respected his request—demand, in truth—that she not contact him while he was on a consult, but she just felt like talking with him. He would tease her for her good mood, but he’d enjoy it. And maybe it would lighten the journey home for him too._

_He answered on the fourth ring. “_ What _?”_

_“Love you too.” Dana laughed when he growled at her. “How close are you to home?”_

_“Not close enough. Still waiting for the damn cab.” He paused. “You sound happy. Stop it.”_

_“I’m not allowed to be happy that you’ll be home soon?”_

_“Optimist. It’s Friday, the traffic is godawful and this ride will cost me a fortune.”_

_“That’s what happens when you ignore the check engine light on your car.” She laughed again at his groan. “What do you want for dinner? I’ll have it ready.”_

_“Beer.”_

_She rolled her eyes. “Anything else?”_

_“More beer. A whiskey chaser wouldn’t hurt.” There was a pause. “You.”_

_“And you. After a shower.”_

_“Neat freak.” She heard the smile in his voice. “Come naked, bring dinner.”_

_“Dream a little dream of me.”_

_He ended the call on a chuckle. Dana closed her eyes and savored their moment together. Then she stretched a bit, shut down her laptop and began to load files into her briefcase. She still found it easier to write on paper and transcribe notes later, a fact that Greg used as fodder for merciless teasing. She didn’t mind, though. His taunts held a secret tenderness she’d learned to find, though it had taken some time._

Maybe I can bribe him into seeing Doctor T. We can go out afterward for steak and beer at that live music place he likes. That should provide some incentive for both of us. _This week in particular had proved difficult, not in any overt way, but in small things. Dana picked up her briefcase and coat._ It’s all in the details, isn’t that what they say?

_She had a couple of hours to fill before his return, so she indulged in a long soak in the tub, where she finished a book and some chocolates left over from her last shopping trip to Reading Terminal. It was a lovely quiet interlude after a somewhat hectic week; she realized she hadn’t taken any time for herself since the beginning of the year. The subtle sense of renewal felt comforting. She and Greg had made a tentative plan to spend a weekend at the cottage in a week or so. The woods would be in full leaf, and the farmers markets filled with late spring produce._

_She’d just put on her bathrobe when a call came in. The ID showed ‘Wilson, James E’. Surprised, she answered rather than let it go to voicemail. “Hello James—“_

_“Doctor Gardener—Dana--there’s—there’s been an accident. House is at Jamaica Hospital.” He sounded strange, distant. “You need to get here—“ The call cut out for a few moments. Dana closed her eyes. Time slowed, seemed to stop; she felt her heartbeat accelerate. She forced a deep, slow breath, winced at the pain in her chest, but the light-headed feeling faded a bit._

_“James? Can you hear me?” She resisted a foolish urge to shake the phone. “How--how bad?”_

_“He’s in surgery now. His cab got t-boned by some idiot in a van. There’s a crush injury—“ Silence for a few moments. “—to amputate.”_

_The word jolted through her like an electric shock. “_ Amputate _? What—”_

_“Sorry—sorry, reception here is terrible. His—his right leg.” James hesitated. “It sounds wrong to say at least it’s the bad one.”_

_She drew in another breath. “I’m on my way.”_

_“It’s rush hour—“ His voice faded, then returned. “Please—be careful. Let me know where you are. I’ll—I’ll call you with any updates.”)_

When she woke, she heard her phone’s ringtone. She let it go to voicemail, but when it rang again a few minutes later she got up and padded into the main room.

It was James. “Are you all right? I came out to the waiting room—“

“I’m fine. How is Greg?”

“He’s resting now.” James paused. “Are you—are you still at the hotel?”

Dana closed her eyes. She knew where this conversation was headed. “Yes. Am I allowed to see Greg anytime in the near future?”

There was a brief silence. “They . . . the staff feel that you’d upset him—“

“Actually it’s Stacy who did that a long time ago. This has nothing to do with me. But he can’t see that yet. Maybe—maybe he never will.” She felt the decision form and accepted it. “Very well. If Greg wants to see me, he knows where I live.”

“ _Dana_. . .” James sounded shocked. “You’re—you plan to leave? _Now_?”

“I won’t relay messages through you or sit here in limbo. I have work and a life. If and when Greg decides to talk to me, he can let me know.”

“You don’t trust me.”

“No, I don’t.” She almost smiled at the shocked silence on the other end of the line. “You’re not an impartial observer, James. You want to protect Greg as much as I do, but your idea of protection isn’t the same as mine.” She kept her tone calm, though she felt like screaming. “Feel free to let him know what I’ve decided. Or don’t, as you please. He’s old enough to figure things out for himself.”

“So you’ve finally reached your limit.” James’s tone held disapproval, but behind it Dana detected a hint of satisfaction.

“It might look that way to you, but its more that I . . . I choose not to play this particular game. _Au revoir_.”

It didn’t take long to pack. She left a sizeable tip for housekeeping, picked up her bags and walked out the door, aware that deep inside, a seed made up of equal parts anger and pain had lodged in fertile soil.


	5. chapter 5

_(Someone curses in some language he half-understands; there is a stench of gas and fried electronics, and blood. Sirens in the distance, a babble of voices . . . He tries to get out and agony floods through his side into his head--)_

Greg awakes on a gasp of remembered pain. His hand goes to his thigh, an automatic gesture he regrets as soon as he makes it, because he finds not even a butchered quadriceps now, only a stump and then nothing. He tries to draw a deep breath and waits for the monitor alarms to go off, but they remain silent. Then he remembers he’s been moved out of ICU, a good sign actually but he’s still not used to the change. After a few moments he is able to find the remote, turn on the tv and concentrate on moving images as a way to push the memory back into obscurity.

Two hours later during shift change, his benefactor shows up again—unexpected, since he works in ICU. Greg flips through the channels when a game unit is plunked down on the adjustable table, next to his untouched jello. He picks it up, examines it.

“Tetris.” Dreads pauses until Greg glances at him in reluctant inquiry. “NPR posted a good article last week. Twenty minutes of Tetris can help inhibit PTSD symptoms after traumatic events.”

“You don’t say.” Greg sets the unit on the table. “Very scientifical of you.”

Dreads gives him an amused look. “Better than boredom.” And with that he leaves.

When Wilson comes in later, Greg is on level one twenty. “Need a phone.”

“Hello to you too.” Wilson dumps a plastic shopping bag on the table. “There you go. I bought a contract for you too. Where’d you get the game?”

“None of your business.” Greg coughs. It hurts, but not quite as much as before. He sets the unit aside and concentrates on getting breath in and out.

“Okay, calm down. You need a drink.”

“Bourbon, no ginger ale.”

“No bourbon, yes ginger ale.” Wilson is clearly amused under the admonishing tone. “You’re still in the hospital, House. Even you have to take things one step at a time.”

 _We’ll see about that._ Greg opens the bag.

The phone has been set up for him—his contact list has been added. He can just imagine Wilson’s disapproval at the womens names. He’d never deleted his favorite hookers, pretty much because he’d just forgotten about it. Now it’s a good thing he didn’t, he’ll no doubt need their services again once he’s out . . . He pushes the thought away; the anger and pain that loom behind it are too much right now. He’ll face those old companions later on, when he has no choice.

“I’m surprised your partner in crime hasn’t attempted to burgle her way into my room,” he says when Wilson returns. The other man sets the cup of ginger ale on the table. His gaze is averted.

“She’s . . . Dana’s gone. She went back to Philly.”

Now it’s hard to breathe again, and it has nothing to do with his damaged ribs. Somehow he hadn’t expected her to just walk out. Stacy had stayed for weeks . . . He must show some sign of surprise, because now Wilson eyes him with what seems to be astonishment.

“You really expected her to wait for you?” He sounds incredulous. “ _Jesus_ , House. You think she had your leg amputated—you kicked her out!”

There’s nothing he can say to that, so he chooses to sidestep. He picks up his new phone and pages through the contacts. “Couple numbers are missing.”

Wilson doesn’t answer right away. “Wow, how remiss of me not to extract every single piece of information from something that looks like a Solo cup after an all-night frat party.”

That brings up something else he’s wanted to ask for a while now, but hasn’t had the strength or the opportunity. “Must have been a bad accident.”

“You’re lucky to be alive.” His friend’s tone is quiet now, serious. “The cabbie barely made it out in time to pull you free.” He hesitates. “The guy who t-boned the cab . . . he’s in jail. He blew a pretty high number on the breathalyzer. You should think about a lawsuit.”

Greg nods, still absorbed in the contact list. “Need a lawyer.”

“Working on it.” Wilson settles back in the chair a bit. “Any word on when you get out?”

“Nope.”

“House.” Wilson waits until he looks up. “You can talk to Dana, you know. Tell her you were upset at finding out about the surgery—“

“It was an amputation.” He looks down at the phone. “Don’t sanitize this mess. Call it what it is.”

“Yeah, okay. I’ll make a mental note for future conversations I hope we never have.” Wilson leans forward. “ _Call_ her. She’ll understand.”

It’s the last thing he’ll ever do. “Need a charger.”

“It’s in the damn bag.” Greg can feel the other man’s glare without having to see it. “I’m off to get some breakfast.”

“Bring back some hash browns and a sausage biscuit with cheese.”

While Wilson is in the cafeteria in a no doubt vain attempt to find something decent to eat, Greg thinks about what he’s said. By now he’s calmed down enough to know Wilson’s right, Gardener didn’t have anything to do with the decision to amputate. But somehow he knows there’s more to this and he can’t call her, not yet. He still has questions to ask, facts to ascertain. Until then, he’ll remain silent on that front.

 _But you trust her,_ his rational core says. _Don’t you?_

Well, that is the question, isn’t it? And not one he wants to answer, now or ever.

He digs out the charger and looks around for an outlet. The only one he can see is about five feet from the bed. He could hit the call button and get a nurse to plug it in for him or wait for Wilson to return, but he wants the charger now, not in half an hour.

With care he untangles his IV line from the sheet and blanket, pulls himself upright and turns a bit. There’s some dizziness, but it subsides. Now his major problem is standing. This is the first time he has to face it in this way. It’s the start of a new life, one he never wanted but when the fuck has random chance ever cared about personal wishes?

Greg puts the charger on the stand, braces himself, and swings his remaining leg over the side of the bed. He’s fortunate the rail’s already down, no doubt an act of forgetfulness by some nurse. It feels weird to sit up, and to be off balance; he feels like he’ll tip over if he leans too far to the right. He waits for the second wave of vertigo and pain to pass, puts his foot on the floor, and inch by inch, eases upright. _Fuck_ , this is strange! As he stands there, he finds he faces a bathroom door. It’s close enough for him to make in a couple of hops if he holds onto things along the way . . .

It takes longer than he’d like, and he’s expended his little store of energy when he arrives, but now he has what he wants—a mirror. In astonishment he examines his features. The bruises and superficial cuts have long since healed, but there’s a sizeable red scar on his forehead, from just above his eyebrow well into what’s left of his hairline. He stares at it, intrigued. No one had said anything about a head wound. _Another addition to the collection_.

“ _House!_ What the hell—“ Wilson charges in from the doorway. Before Greg knows it he’s helped back in bed. “You could have waited, what’s wrong with you!”

 _I’m missing more than a leg_ , he thinks before exhaustion pulls him down.


	6. Chapter six

_August 15th_

Dana unlocked the door to her place, dropped her briefcase by a chair and did a quick sort through her mail before she put it in the basket on her desk. The weather had turned stormy for August, with sudden showers to make the streets slick and full of puddles. She was glad to be home with no need to go anywhere. 

It was late and the kitchen was uncomfortable, full of damp warm air. She opened the fridge, glanced at the contents, and felt little interest in anything on offer. But she still made toast, and took the plate with her to the terrace. It was the work of a few moments to get settled into a comfortable chair. She looked out over the Philadelphia skyline, half-hidden in swirls of rain and fog. Here and there a light gleamed through the mist. She wondered who worked overtime, who met whom for dinner in town . . . all the people she would never know, isolated in their little squares of illumination against the approach of evening.

 _It’s been over two months._ She set aside the food. _Not a single word, no phone call, nothing. He can’t still believe I had anything to do with the decision to remove his leg._ She saw Greg again in her mind’s eye: his pale, battered face suffused with fury as he tried to shout at her, his voice broken . . . The shock was dulled now, but still present deep inside. She wasn’t sure it would ever go away, buried in her heart like a barbed dart.

On a professional level she knew this behavior was the result of the first medical crisis years ago, and what he saw as an act of profound betrayal. He’d endured far too much pain during that period; coupled with chronic and deep-seated trust issues, it would be difficult for him to overcome his natural tendency to believe it had happened all over again. The sticking point in this hypothesis was the time she and Greg had spent together. Both of them had worked hard to establish a bond of honesty and trust between them—or at least she had. Perhaps she’d taken too much for granted . . . but that didn’t feel right. Greg had made real progress during his months with her. And she knew he loved her . . . Something else, some piece of his personal history she didn’t know about, stood in the way. She’d stake her license on it. There was still so much she hadn’t learned about his life and experiences . . .

 _Am I done with him?_ She folded her arms and leaned her head against the wing of the chair. Her heart told her no; her mind suggested he was stubborn and it would take a great deal of courage for him to risk seeing her again. The question was, how long was she willing to wait?

 _The deeper question is, do I trust him to come to me?_ On that point both heart and mind were silent, though she knew it was imperative that he be the one to make the first move. Well, it didn’t matter. Perhaps there would come a day when she would know she needed to move on. For now though, she would wait.

After a while she took the cold toast to the kitchen and put it in the sink. She would have to do better than this; after Papa’s death she’d ended up not eating for months, and it had taken her what had felt like forever to regain her appetite—not just for food, but for the everyday pleasures of life. _I’ve been staying in the house too much. Tomorrow . . . tomorrow I’ll go to the café._ She looked down at the plate and sighed softly. The temptation to give up her practice surged through her once more, but she set it aside. She’d built a solid practice, and she had plenty of clients—in fact there was a long waiting list as well as a substantial clientele roster. It would be foolish to throw away years of effort . . . but in this moment she could do it without regret, and move on to whatever awaited. _But I won’t. Not yet._

The rest of the evening she spent in her bedroom with case files, her thoughts closed against the emptiness of the place beside her.

Dana woke to a quiet Saturday. Weak sunlight filtered through a small gap in the curtains. She stared at it as she struggled with the desire to stay in bed all day. There were things to do . . . shopping, laundry, some work-related calls . . . She pulled the covers over her head and drifted off.

It was late when she woke again, muzzy and ill-tempered. She slithered out of bed and headed off to the shower, where she stood under the hot water until it washed away some of her bad mood.

 _You’re going out_ , she reminded herself as she dressed. _Some café au lait and croissants will keep you going. You can take your work with you and do some shopping on the way home._ None of it held any appeal, but she went through the motions of an ordinary day—a cab into town, coffee and treats at the café. She managed to eat both, mainly because someone else had baked the croissants and brewed the coffee. Afterward she went in search of a new sweater, and made a stop at the little market on the corner to pick up a few essentials.

She was on her way home, engrossed in conversation with the cab driver, when her phone rang. Just for one moment she thought _it’s him_. Of course it wasn’t; a patient wanted to rearrange an appointment.

“Bad news?” the cabbie wanted to know. Dana shook her head and looked out the window.

“Too late for that.”

“Sorry?”

“Nothing.” She offered a smile. “Do you have plans for Labor Day? Will you go to the shore?”

The talk about holidays took them the rest of the way to her place, where she gave the driver a generous tip, wished him a pleasant day, and went inside.

She put away the food, took the sweater to the laundry room and started a wash. As she sorted through the pile in the hamper, she found a crumpled shirt balled up in a corner that she’d missed somehow. It was Greg’s. Dana held it in her hands. She remembered when she’d stolen it from his closet, how he’d growled at her and then laughed, and undid the buttons one by one as he kissed her and took his time . . . On impulse she lifted the shirt to her nose. It still smelled of him, that male scent she knew well.

Somehow she ended up on the bed with the shirt draped over her pillow. She pushed her face into the soft cloth. As she lay there, a memory came to her—Greg seated in an easy chair at the cottage, guitar in hand as he played for her a song she knew well and loved.

_I still might run in silence tears of joy might stain my face_

_and the summer sun might burn me 'til I'm blind_

_but not to where I cannot see_

_you walkin' on the backroads_

_by the rivers flowing gentle on my mind . . ._

_‘Gentle on My Mind,’ Glen Campbell (lyrics by John Hartford)_


	7. chapter seven

_September 20th_

Greg sits in his darkened living room, wedged into one end of the couch— _cornered_. But he can’t smile at the bad pun. It’s so quiet; the storm outside has driven everyone indoors and there’s no traffic. If Gardener was here she’d have a bright blaze in the fireplace and music, fresh brioche and coffee ready for an afternoon snack . . . But she’s not anywhere near him, so he’ll take what he’s got.

For a while he allows himself to adjust to being home. Idle thoughts drift in and out of his mind. It’s a little awkward to sit on something like a couch; his balance is still off, even after weeks of physical therapy. There’s discomfort in his lower back, a warning sign of impending sciatica no doubt. He has to shift a bit, adjust his posture. In time he’ll get used to it to some degree, the same way he got used to the pain in his gutted quadriceps. It was always there, a constant, unwanted companion, the shadow between him and everything, everyone else. The only difference is that now he has emptiness in place of pain. Ironic, that knowledge. For years he’d have given anything to get rid of the shrill keen of damaged nerves; he’s paid the price, although not of his own choice, and his situation has changed only in details and degree.

That knowledge is still too much to contemplate. He pushes it to the back of his mind and concentrates on other things.

His arrival home had been a bit more interesting than he’d expected. Wilson had wheeled him to the front step and left him to his own devices while he went back to the car for the groceries they’d picked up on the way. Greg stared at the steps. A concrete ramp with a low slope had been set up on one side.

“Someone’s been messing with things,” he’d observed when Wilson returned. The other man had shot him a brief glance as he hauled out his keys.

“So it seems.” He’d set the groceries on the floor to unlock the door, which had given Greg a chance to try out the ramp. It was easy to navigate. He’d hated it, and he still does. But it’s a change that will prove useful.

Now he looks around once more. His apartment is the same as ever, though it’s clear someone’s done a recent clean—Wilson, probably. Gardener’s touches are still in residence, and there’s even beer in the fridge—the IPA he likes. Greg takes another swallow, savors the taste. He remembers his tour of the kitchen. It won’t be easy to cook, but then he never did much of that anyway. He’s still got his takeout menus and the store down the street delivers, good enough to go on.

The bathroom has been renovated. “No, I didn’t do this,” Wilson had said when Greg had made some caustic comment. There are sturdy hand rails everywhere, and the sink’s been lowered a bit so he can use it either standing or seated. None of Gardener’s things had been visible, though. A quick check had revealed her soap, shampoo, cosmetics are all gone.

The bedroom had been modified too, though he didn’t care about that. He’d gone to the tallboy and opened a drawer Gardener used for her stay-over clothes. It was full of shirts—his tee shirts. There was no trace of her personal items anywhere.

“What did you expect?” had been Wilson’s reply when Greg confronted him about it. “You haven’t talked to her in weeks. It’s clear she thinks you’re done with her.” He gestured at a stand in the hallway. “She left her keys too.” Sure enough, her set was there, neat and tidy—no note, either.

And so here he is, alone with an empty beer bottle in hand as he struggles to figure out the game Gardener plays. She’d paid off his hospital bill in full, all six figures of it; set up his home so it’s easier for him to go through daily life; stocked him with enough food to make it through the next few months. And yet she hasn’t contacted him at all.

After a while he climbs into the chair and rolls over to the piano. It’s dust-free and there’s a new bench, padded and adjustable. He manages to get onto it and winces as his incision gives him a warning shot, complete with a mild spasm. The truncated muscles are still healing, and too much activity causes problems.

Once he’s settled, he examines the instrument. The ivory gleams, an invitation to touch the keys and make music. He places his fingers with care, plays a soft chord, then a run of scales. The piano’s in tune—so that’s been dealt with too. Well, he won’t complain. It feels good to sit here as he has so many times in the past, just him and the music. But there’s something missing. He knows what it is, but he won’t admit it to himself.

After a while he notices it’s dark outside, and he hasn’t turned on any lights. He’s hungry now too. If Gardener was here . . . He shakes his head, as if that will make the thought fly out, and stares at his wheelchair. A few moments later he begins the laborious process of transfer.

It’s the work of ten minutes to get a delivery of Indian food set up, and a table lamp turned on. The remote for the tv sits on the coffee table. He picks it up to check the availability of channels. The cable’s still on; a quick run through the schedule reveals the premium tiers are in place. He can watch porn, a game, old movies, almost anything he wants. It’s a small comfort that won’t last long, but it’ll do for tonight.

Soon enough he’s back on the couch with a couple of beers, a beef curry, and some football match or other—he hasn’t even bothered to find out who’s playing. At any other time before Gardener had entered his life, this would be a good evening. Instead it’s empty, all of it—an attempt at normalcy when he knows damn well nothing will be the same again. The knowledge that he has the power to change this with a phone call makes it all worse, because he won’t be the one to give in until he figures things out in his head. But he isn’t willing to walk into another betrayal, not again . . . even the thought of a call is impossible, a fact he loathes, and yet there it is. He can’t trust her until he has more information. And that’s what Dana wants from him: trust.

After a while he abandons the curry on the coffee table and slugs down both beers before he pulls a fleece throw over himself. He can’t face an empty bedroom, not yet. Maybe not ever. It doesn’t matter. On that bleak thought he drifts into an uneasy sleep, exhausted, uncertain and alone.


	8. chapter 8

_October 20 th_

“Doctor Gardener?”

Dana didn’t look up from her notes. “Yes, Alex?”

“Um . . . Doctor Wilson is here to see you.”

She straightened and gave her assistant a level stare. He held her gaze, his own concerned, a bit hesitant. “Send him in,” she said after a few moments. “And bring coffee for two if you would, please.”

James was ushered in and the door closed behind him. He looked much as Alex had, though his trepidation was more obvious.

“Please have a seat.” Dana kept her tone pleasant, but James flinched all the same. He chose the chair to her left and sat down.

“Thanks for seeing me.” He sounded a little tired. Dana refused to let her heart warm to him. She couldn’t help but like James; he was a man who used charm to manipulate those around him, but in this case she knew he felt genuine worry. Still, it was best to hold him at arm’s length, so to speak.

“Of course. What can I do for you?”

Any answer James might have made was interrupted by Alex’s return. He set a tray on the desk and left as silently as he’d entered, but not without a quick glance before he shut the door. Dana gave him a slight nod, and he left without comment.

“Good assistants are hard to find.” James watched as Dana poured coffee.

“Indeed they are.” She offered him a cup. “Now, how may I help you?”

He held his cup but didn’t drink. “All business. I can’t blame you for that.” He paused. “House is home now. In fact he’s been back for over a month. I know you know that, you paid his hospital bill.” Dana sipped her coffee and waited. “He’s . . . he’s being stubborn. I don’t think . . . he won’t call you first.”

“I see.” She set her cup on its saucer. “If that’s all you came to tell me, you’ve wasted a trip.”

“So you’ve decided to be stubborn too.” James glared at her. “This is getting both of you nowhere.”

“If that’s how you wish to view things, you’re free to do so.” Dana fought the urge to raise her voice.

“You’re supposed to love him. How can you allow him to be alone after what’s happened?”

“The way Greg and I manage our relationship is none of your business.” She kept her tone cool, detached. “If you don’t mind, I have an appointment—“

“It _is_ my business. I’m his best friend, god help me, and I’m watching him crawl back into the same hole he’s lived in for years because he thinks you’ve walked away!” James placed his untouched coffee on the desk and stood. “Fine. Keep the moral high ground if it makes you feel superior. But you’re hurting him to save your pride.”

“No I am not.” Anger stung her into a reply. “As I’ve said before, Greg knows my number. He also knows where I live. I don’t expect—“ She stopped as pain took her breath for a moment. “I don’t expect an apology, but he must make the first move.” She set her coffee aside. “That’s all I have to say. You may tell him if you wish, it makes no difference to me either way.”

James stared at her as if she’d lost her mind. _Maybe I have_. She almost smiled.

“You said he has to make the first move. So this is therapy-related, not—not just one-upmanship.”

Dana said nothing. James held her gaze for a few moments before he looked away.

“You know this is dangerous,” he said at last. “House can out-stubborn anyone. I’ve seen him do it.”

“Then that’s what he’ll do. It’s up to him.”

It wasn’t until much later, when she’d ended her day and gone upstairs, that Dana allowed herself to go over the conversation. As she picked at a salad, she wondered if Greg had sent James over to sound her out somehow. It seemed unlikely, but the possibility was there. No doubt he had relayed her comments to Greg when she’d left the hospital after . . . after.

 _I don’t know if the course I’ve chosen is the right one_. She pushed away the salad and rested her head on her hand as she stared at the tablecloth. _I need help_.

It didn’t take her long to reach Doctor Marchal. “I’m at our summer place.” He chuckled. “For some reason Addie wanted to come down, so here we are. You’re lucky to get this call through, the weather’s terrible.”

“Better not tell the tourism board, the Cote d’Azur is always sunny.” She switched to French. “Alain, could we schedule an appointment when you come back? I need a listening ear, and yours is the best.”

“My goodness, a compliment! Now I’m obligated.” He was silent a moment. “It must be important if you’re calling. Usually you leave a message with the answering service.”

“It is important, yes.” She tried to keep her tone impassive.

“Well, no time like the present, as long as the wireless holds out.” Alain sounded cheerful. “Tell me what’s going on, little mouse.”

Dana smiled a bit at his use of her old nickname. “All right. This . . . this might take some time.”

“Take all the time you need.”

She managed to get the whole story out, though it was difficult. When she fell silent, Alain spoke. The humor was gone from his voice; he sounded both concerned and comforting.

“What is this man like? I know his name but we’ve never met.”

Dana sighed softly. “Complicated.”

Alain snorted. “Huh. I can’t imagine you with anyone who wouldn’t be the human equivalent of a Gordian knot. You always did enjoy a challenge.”

She knew he was right. “Still looking for my father, no doubt.”

“Perhaps this is more about your mother instead. Your father was a musician, and everything he did and said pertained to that one note, so to speak. Gabrielle was far more complex. Her husband needed that quality in her, though he’d never say so.”

“Maybe I’ve taken on more than I can handle.”

Alain laughed softly. “I doubt it. You have excellent judgment. Tell me about Doctor House.”

“He’s not a good man in the conventional sense of the phrase,” Dana said after a time. “But he is a man of truth and his own sort of honor, and he loves without reserve when he does open up. He respects honesty, even if it’s brutal. He doesn’t spare the people around him, but he’s even harder on himself. And he has trust issues that run deep.” She sighed again. “Years ago he was badly wounded by a decision someone close to him made out of love. This current situation is very much like that earlier one.”

“And despite the problem at hand, you enjoy all that intensity.”

“Yes, I do—did . . .” A sudden rush of emotion crowded in on her, closed her throat.

“And now you’re in what feels like an impossible situation.” She heard the creak of Alain’s chair and knew he leaned back, a habit with him when he was intrigued in the subject. “Both of you are pigheaded, it seems.”

“I have never denied my stubborn streak,” Dana admitted with what dignity she could muster.

“You may acknowledge the truth all you like, and still here you are.”

“Yes.” She swiped at a tear on her cheek, angry at her inability to control her feelings even while she knew it was a good sign. “Alain, am I doing the right thing? Should I go to him?”

“Now, no cheating. You know you must ask yourself that question. I can’t answer it.” He paused. “You also know this may be too much to ask of him. He sounds like a man who values rational thought above all else, and yet he must still be swamped with conflicting emotions.”

“Yes. I’m sure that’s why he hasn’t contacted me.” She stared at the skyline beyond the terrace windows. “His best friend came to me today. He accused me of choosing the moral high ground over my love for Greg.”

“Do you think that’s true?”

“I don’t know what to think.” She swallowed hard. “Alain, it’s been over three months since—since we saw each other.”

“Are you pregnant?” Alain chuckled at her derisory snort. “I had to ask.”

“Oaf.” She smiled a little though. “So you won’t give me an easy out.”

“Of course not. But I do believe you’re capable of finding the right answer. You have a strong intuition and a good heart, little mouse. While you’re concentrating on trust, remember to trust yourself too.”

They ended the call on a mutual agreement to have dinner at his apartment in Manhattan. “If you’re free for New Year’s you’d be most welcome. Addie and I would love to see you, it’s been far too long.”

She sat on the terrace for a long time afterward, and listened to rain rattle against the windows. She wondered what Greg was doing, and how his healing had progressed. When tears fell she let them, and knew many more would follow.

_‘I Can’t Stand the Rain,’ Ann Peebles_


	9. chapter nine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to everyone sending in reviews and kudos, they're much appreciated. More chapters are on the way :) --Brig

“House, you knew this day would come. You have to get fitted for a prosthesis, unless you want to spend the rest of your life in that chair.”

Wilson sits across from him, all earnest and serious, his big brown eyes wide. It takes every ounce of control Greg owns not to hurl the dregs of his coffee straight at those boyish good looks. In case it’s escaped this idiot’s attention, he _will_ spend the rest of his life in a wheelchair. What the hell would he know about anything, especially this? He’s never lost a limb, never lived with chronic pain . . . “Fuck off,” he mutters, for lack of anything better to say.

“No, I won’t.” Wilson looks stern now. “You need this, you know you do. How do you expect to do consults? A wheelchair makes travel ten times as difficult. A crutch or a cane--”

“Fuck. Off.” He’s louder now. The man never could take a hint.

“House—just because Dana’s gone . . .” He sighs and looks down. “You’ve wallowed for weeks. Enough is enough.”

“So now we’re down to tough love.” Greg slaps his mug on the coffee table. “And I say yet again: FUCK OFF.”

“And I reply yet again: NO.” Wilson glares at him now. “You need to get on with your life!”

“Tell me why.” The words slip out before he can stop them. There’s a brief silence.

“Because you’ve made progress after Mayfield,” Wilson says at last. He sounds bewildered now, almost hurt. “To throw it away on a game—“

“I’m not.” He utters the lie with astonishing ease. “I’m on sabbatical.”

“You can’t find a better bullshit excuse?” Wilson shakes his head and turns away. “Okay. I have other things to do with my time, like shopping. Give me your list.”

“You already know what I need.”

“Much as you’d like to linger on the edge of malnutrition, I’m not buying just beer and Cheetos.” Wilson picks up the recyclable shopping bags by the door. “You have to eat something, you look like hell. I’ll be back in an hour or so.”

The sharp snap of the door is loud in the quiet room. After a few minutes Greg picks up his mug. He needs more caffeine, but the work it takes to move from the couch to the chair is more than he wants to deal with. The thought of crutches makes him clench up inside; he had to use them in the hospital, and he’d hated every moment of it. Anyway, he’s already navigated around the apartment by holding onto things—something he’d often done before the loss of his leg. He could try it again now.

It takes a while but he gets to the kitchen, where a full coffeepot waits. Soon enough he has a mugful of good brew and two slices of toast on a small plate. Now he has to figure out how to get back to the living room. He can’t manage both plate and mug, so he eats the toast at the counter, picks up his coffee, and heads back to the couch. Everything goes well until he gets to the area rug. As he reaches out for the back of the couch, his foot slips and just that fast he’s down on his face with a loud, solid thump. The mug flies out of his hand, lands in the middle of the room and dumps hot coffee all over everything. Then it’s quiet again. Greg lies there, the breath knocked out of him, half-blinded by stars of pain. The scar on his forehead aches, a dull reminder of the moments after the accident. There’s something else that blocks his field of vision—a table leg, he realizes after a few moments. Another insight occurs to him: he almost brained himself on that table. Another couple of inches and he’d be out cold and concussed at the least, no doubt.

 _Damn, I_ really _wanted that coffee_. A sort of laugh comes out of him. And then he’s got tears in his eyes and a knot in his chest and the inescapable, cold knowledge that he’ll never walk again on his own two feet. He’s joined the ranks of cripples and freaks for good this time, no getting out of it, no miracle cures, no nothing. He lies there drowning, helpless, and hates his weakness as drops of salt water slide down his cheeks to the carpet.

After a while he hauls himself up, gropes his way to the chair, and moves down the hallway to his room. It’s cool and dark there, with fresh sheets on the too-big bed. He crawls in and pulls the covers up with trembling hands, and buries his wet face in the pillows. After a while he falls asleep.

“ _House!_ House, are you okay?” Wilson puts a gentle hand on his shoulder and he shies away, unwilling to let anyone take him out of his cocoon.

“’mfine,” he growls.

“What the hell happened? There’s coffee all over the place . . .” A moment’s silence. “You tried to walk to the kitchen, didn’t you? You . . . you have to face the fact that you can’t do that anymore—not without a prosthesis or a cane, something.” Greg pushes his face deeper in the pillows, in what he hopes is a clear signal he doesn’t want to listen. “Yeah, okay. Guess I get to clean things up.” Another pause. “I’ll come back with a tray later on.”

He’s left alone for some time. It feels good to just lie there and listen to Wilson work on the rug. He’s got some steam-cleany thing he brought over a while back; it’s noisy and from the amount of cursing, starts and stops, it’s not easy to use. But the activity isn’t annoying, in fact he welcomes it as white noise. In slow degrees he drifts off into an uneasy doze.

A while later the fragrance of corned beef invades his consciousness. When Greg opens one eye, he can see a large sandwich and a pile of chips, and just beyond that, an iced tea. He sits up, a slow, careful move that makes him well aware of the new bruises all over him, and takes the plate in hand.

The sandwich and chips are almost gone when Wilson taps at the door and comes in. “Rug’s clean,” he says, and perches on the end of the bed to do a quick exam. His touch is light, professional, but there’s worry in his dark eyes. “How are you?”

“Sore.” Greg picks up the iced tea. “This isn’t beer.”

“No it isn’t, considering you’ve got a huge bruise on your forehead and a nice mouse started,” Wilson agrees. “Anyway, it’s too early for alcohol.”

 _Dana wouldn’t have said that_. “Bite your tongue.” He twiddles the bottle around and stares at the quilt draped over his remaining leg.

“House, I can’t be here all the time to look after you.” Wilson sounds both sad and annoyed. “Things have to change. You know they do.”

He watches the bottle turn in his hands, slow and sure, just as the world revolves every twenty-four hours, inexorable as death and life. “Yeah,” he says after a while. “Yeah, I know.”

“So you’ll make the appointment?”

“Let me think about it.”

“You’ve had—“

“ _Wilson_.” He won’t beg; he won’t. “I’ll do it. Just . . . not today.”

Wilson doesn’t answer right away. “Good enough, I guess.” The bed moves a bit as he gets up. “I’ll . . . I’ll bring in the chair for you. Just—just use it, okay? We can do takeout tomorrow. And beer. Maybe watch a game.”

It’s a good bribe. He doesn’t have the heart to tell Wilson he doesn’t really care. And when he’s alone again, the quiet takes him down into indifferent darkness.


	10. chapter ten

Stacy pulled the car into an open spot and put it in park, then sat there for a moment. All the doubts and fear she’d stuffed down inside on the drive from Short Hills came back full force. This could be a huge mistake . . . but Wilson wouldn’t have called her if the situation wasn’t serious. She exhaled, turned off the engine, and got out.

The apartment house looked much the same as she remembered it from her single visit after she and Greg had split up: a little shabby but in good repair. She entered the hallway, faced the door for apartment B, and lifted the knocker. It was mid-morning, so Greg was most likely still asleep. She gave several loud knocks and waited.

“Wrong apartment, idiot!” 

Just the sound of that familiar voice, rough and angry, awoke memories she’d tried to bury for years now with little success. Stacy marshaled her courage and banged the knocker again. There was a growl of impatience, and then the deadbolts unlocked before the door swung open wide. “I said—“

He was in a wheelchair—far too thin and pale, red scar on his forehead, his cheek and right arm marked with what looked like new bruises . . . but worst of all, the leg was gone. Just—just gone. He stared at her, his eyes wide. They were as blue as she remembered, a bit bloodshot but clear and full of shock and a profound pain that shook her, a pain that changed to fury.

“Hello Greg.” She tried to smile.

“Wilson sent you.” His voice was harsh.

“He--he said you needed someone to talk to.” Even to her it sounded ridiculous.

“Yeah, you’re _exactly_ who I need to have around right now.” The deep bitterness made her wince.

“Maybe I am.” She held his gaze. “Tell me to leave and I will. But I think Wilson’s right.”

He continued to stare at her. Then he backed away and went into the living room. Stacy took that as assent. She entered the apartment and closed the door behind her, dared a quick glance around. At least it was clean and neat. It was clear Wilson had kept things in shape. A lingering smell of coffee tantalized her; she’d left early to avoid rush hour, and anxiety had knotted her stomach so she’d skipped breakfast. Now she’d kill for a decent cuppa. She knew better than to expect Greg would offer anything though. With a sense of mingled apprehension and resignation she took a seat in the easy chair by the fireplace and set her purse on the floor with care. Her hands shook a little as she did so. She couldn’t help but remember the one and only time she’d come here, to make a final plea for forgiveness. She’d ended up alone, with a terse instruction to leave her keys on the coffee table and take anything she wanted except the piano and guitars. Today’s visit promised to be similar in tone, if not content.

“So . . . the master manipulator’s been playing on your guilt.” Greg faced her from across the room.

“He might have mentioned you haven’t seen Doctor Gardener since you left the hospital and it’s eating you alive.”

Greg laughed, a sharp bark she knew all too well. “So much for what’s derisively known as my private life. Fuck off.”

“Wilson says you accused her of . . . of making the decision to amputate your leg.” Stacy hated the hesitation in her words; Greg would seize on that weakness and rip her to shreds.

“Aw, feeling just a widdle guilty, are we?” His mocking tone had a keen edge, one that had cut her in the past, and left deep scars. Stacy felt the old anger and pain rise up. She used her training to set them aside for the moment, saved for use later if needed.

“What happened with you and me—this is different. From what I’ve heard, Doctor Gardener had nothing to do with the decision to amputate your leg. When you came in, the surgeon had no choice.” She leaned forward a bit. “Greg, don’t do this. Don’t push her away because you’re afraid.”

“That’s an interesting assumption on your part,” Greg said after a brief silence.

“Which statement?”

Just for a moment his expression softened. Stacy caught her breath at the ravages revealed in that simple change. He was a proud man, and yet so vulnerable; the accident had stripped away a good portion of the layers and armor he relied on, she could see that now. “Always a lawyer at heart.”

“It pays the bills.” She didn’t say anything else.

“Your hubby’s still sponging off you, unless you finally dumped him.”

Stacy tilted her head a bit. “What difference does it make to you?”

“Gives me something to work with. Tell me how you feel about your cutie pie, and I’ll tell you how I feel about people making executive decisions behind my back.”

Even after so many years, that familiar stab of pain made itself known. “Try substituting the word ‘impossible’ for ‘executive’.”

“I’d already decided—“

“Greg, I wasn’t going to let you die. I couldn’t . . .” She paused, astonished at how fast the emotions still crowded in after so many years. “No. We’re not going over this again. You want to know how I feel about Mark. I love him. Not the way I--I loved you, but it’s enough for both of us.” She lifted her chin. “Your turn.”

That earned her a glare. “You already know my opinion, I don’t need to rehash it.”

“Then let’s move to the relevant subject. Do you really believe Doctor Gardener ordered the amputation? Or is it just easier for you to blame her so you don’t have to face the fact that random chance made that decision?” It was clear she’d hit home, so she stopped there. If she continued to press him, he’d either kick her out or run.

“Oh, aren’t you clever.” She could barely hear him. “You think you know what happened.”

“No I don’t. But you do.” Stacy paused. “Tell me, Greg. Please.”

He didn’t answer her right away. “There’s . . . there’s fresh coffee, if you want some.”

It was a delaying tactic, of course she knew that, but it worked in her favor for the moment. They ended up in the kitchen. Stacy filled both mugs and put some bread in the toaster. When it was ready she brought everything to the butcher-block island and pulled up the stool she’d liberated from beneath a stack of books in the hallway. Greg sat on the other side in his chair, a bit too low to be comfortable, but he didn’t seem to notice or care. He drank his coffee and ignored the toast—the first time he’d ever foregone food, in her experience at least. Up close she could see he’d run from lean to thin, and his hands trembled a bit as he held his mug. She knew better than to say anything though.

“Wilson talked to you about the accident,” Greg said after a silence that lasted too long. “Must have been early on, then he called you back out of desperation.”

“He gave me basics. And yes, he did ask me to help.” She took another slice of toast.

“Caring is sharing. I’m just dying to hear about how everything’s going in lovers paradise.”

“We’re doing all right. I figured you’d be out running on one of those blade model prosthetics by now. Why aren’t you?”

Greg flinched—just a tiny flutter of his eyelids, but she knew him well enough to interpret it. “ _Quid pro quo_ , Clarice. I’d just love to know what your SO’s up to these days.”

“He’s working on a novel.” She saw Greg’s brows rise and fended him off. “You owe me an answer. Two, actually.”

“You get one. Not interested in a fake leg.” The flat tone warned her not to probe. She did it anyway.

“Come on, you’ve been dreaming of this for years! Now you’ve got the chance to run and you’re passing it up?” She added more coffee to her mug. “Chickenshit.”

Greg sat back. He looked offended, but at least there was a slight edge of real amusement along with it. Stacy crossed her fingers. “Am not.”

“Are too. You’ve given up because you’re scared. Things might not work out, so you’ve decided to lose before you even place your bets.”

He set his mug on the island with a thump. “As if you know what the fuck you’re talking about! You gave up on me and here you are, dispensing advice—“

Now she unleashed her anger a little; he could handle it at this point, and it would clear the playing field, so to speak. “I didn’t give up and you know it. We broke up because I—“ She hesitated; might as well say it now, she’d lost almost everything she loved long ago. “I destroyed your trust in me, though I didn’t mean to. Greg, I don’t regret my decision. But I’m sorry I hurt you so deeply.” She spoke past the lump in her throat. “You didn’t deserve it. Any of it.”

Silence fell once more. When he spoke again, the harshness had returned. “It’s been months. She won’t take me back.”

“That isn’t how it works and you know it. She can speak for herself. Go to her. Talk about what happened.”

“You mean allow her to officially kick me out of her life.” He passed a hand over his face. “Don’t think I can . . . I can deal with that.”

Stacy almost rolled her eyes at Greg’s inevitable stubbornness. She knew it was borne of fear. “Look, I don’t know Doctor Gardener all that well, but from what Wilson says she’s far more patient and willing to listen than I ever was. She’s not me, Greg. Give her a chance.”

Greg didn’t answer her, but she hadn’t expected him to. She knew the signs of emotional shutdown with him, that much hadn’t changed. So she finished her toast and her coffee, took everything to the sink and washed up, then returned to the living room. Greg waited by the door. He didn’t look at her when he spoke.

“Guess you’ll get word from Wilson on how I’m doing.”

On impulse she knelt by his chair. “I’d like to visit now and then, if—if you’re okay with that. I don’t want to make things worse.”

He turned his head to study her, his vivid gaze intense, searching. “Why do you care?”

The genuine bewilderment in the question floored her for a few moments. “Oh, don’t be an idiot,” she whispered at last, and hated the easy tears that rose up. “Of _course_ I care.” She put her hand over his for a moment, felt his lean fingers tremble just a little. Then she got to her feet and left before she said anything more.


	11. chapter eleven

It’s a bit later than usual when Wilson arrives home. He is laden with bags and a pizza box besides his briefcase; Greg gives him a sidelong look while perusing the early evening offerings on tv. Without a word Wilson makes his way to the kitchen, and pauses only to drop off the mail. It is a silent rebuke, one Greg chooses to ignore. Why should he go to the bother of getting dressed just to cruise a few feet to the mailbox? He sets down the remote and picks up the stack of letters. Most are requests for consults; he puts those aside and looks through the rest, but there’s nothing but circulars and flyers, a reminder to get maintenance done on the Chrysler, the electric bill . . . until he gets to the last item. It’s a letter from Gardener’s practice. The shock of it grips him hard for a moment. He resists the urge to rip it open and read the contents. Instead he tosses the electric bill on the coffee table and tucks the letter in his bathrobe pocket just as Wilson enters the living room with two plates in hand, loaded with pizza and fries.

“Pizza on a weeknight.” Greg accepts his plate. For once the fragrance of pepperoni and hot fries smells almost tempting. “Feeling guilty, are we?”

Wilson sets his plate on the coffee table, picks up the bill and goes back to the kitchen. “Not particularly.” The fridge door opens, followed by the clink of beer bottles. “Just though it would make a nice change from chicken and salad.”

“Uh huh. Couldn’t have anything to do with Stacy coming over this morning.”

“Oh, did she stop by?” Wilson returns with bottles in hand. He puts one down close to Greg and takes a seat on the couch with a muffled groan. “Damn, that treadmill at the gym is trying to kill me.”

“No humble brags. Stick to the subject.” Greg takes a bite of pizza. It’s good, just the right ratio of cheese and sauce to meat. He chews and tries to feel something more than nothing at all, aware of the slight weight of the letter in his pocket.

“It was nice of her to see you.” Wilson picks up his slice. “How’s she doing?”

“You told her to come over.”

Wilson gives him an innocent look. “No, actually I didn’t. I . . . suggested it.”

“Meaning you twisted her arm.”

“Come on, you know Stacy. I couldn’t have forced her to do anything. She’s as stubborn as you are in that respect.” Wilson chews and closes his eyes for a moment. “Damn, this is good. Especially since someone else made it.”

Greg is about to hurl back a reply when it strikes him that Wilson has prepared dinner almost every night for the last five months, without complaint—not so much as a hint of reproach, even when his cooking is refused or picked at. So he says nothing, just takes a large swallow of beer.

“Thought that might shut you up.” Wilson puts his stocking feet on the coffee table. “Where’s the remote? I’d like to watch the news.”

Greg tosses him the item in question. “Game’s on later.”

“Okay.”

They settle into their usual routine—dinner and desultory commentary on the day’s events—but Greg can’t settle into it. Of course the weather doesn’t help; rain and blustery winds aren’t unusual for late October, and he’s happy to be indoors most of the time. Even the minor change from the weekday routine presented by tonight’s meal isn’t enough to cause this. He doesn’t want to think about Stacy’s visit being a partial source for his restlessness, but he has no choice.

“You’re pretty quiet tonight.” Wilson sits up a bit and stretches. “Want more pizza?”

Greg looks at the crust left on his plate. He’s not really hungry, but for lack of anything better to do he nods. Wilson heaves himself up off the couch and pads into the kitchen. Greg calls after him.

“I can get it myself.”

After a moment Wilson pokes his head around the doorframe. “Okay.” His tone is mild, neutral.

It takes several minutes to transfer from the couch to the chair, and then move around furniture to the kitchen. Wilson’s at the sink. He doesn’t turn around when Greg enters. The pizza and fries are on the island. Greg dumps the crust in the box, grabs two more slices and a pile of fries, and heads over to the microwave. He can just about reach it. _It would be easier if you were standing,_ that little voice in his head whispers. He ignores it and heats up the food, takes it back to the living room.

By the time he’s back on the couch everything is tepid. He picks off the pepperoni and eats a few fries, but he isn’t interested in the food. With an impatient sigh he slaps the plate on the coffee table and picks up his laptop.

When Wilson returns, Greg is deep in an article about the latest prosthetics on offer. Part of him knows this is overt, crude manipulation, an attempt to move him out of the safe cave he’s made for himself. But another part is eager now to step out, in every sense of the phrase. If he has to live with a fake leg, so be it. _You’ll need all the support you can get after you read that letter_ , a little voice whispers.

Wilson says nothing, even though Greg knows he’s seen the laptop screen. He just takes his place at the other end of the couch and picks up the remote. But when he says “Let’s move on from the news,” his voice is quiet, and his glance holds understanding. Nothing more is said.

Later on, when he’s in his bedroom and Wilson’s gone for the night, Greg takes the letter out of his bathrobe pocket, rips it open, removes the single sheet. It’s a notice from her assistant informing him Doctor Gardener will likely close up shop and move out of state in six months, if so her office will farm out patients to other therapists, any questions call or email, blah blah. There is no acknowledgment of him in any way, no personal note, nothing.

He stares at the words as shock grips his heart, followed closely by fear. So she’s decided to leave—leave everything, her home, the cottage, her career—him. He’s driven her to this; while he’d like to think this is some kind of gauntlet she’s thrown down, he knows her well enough to understand that’s not what’s happened. She is about to go out of his life for good because he’s been silent for months—he’s allowed her to believe he doesn’t trust her. It’s not true, but the damage is done; the depth of the wound he caused is visible in her choice to leave. Still . . . if he acts now, it might not be too late.

After a time he makes a call, but not the one Wilson presumes is first on the list. As he expects, it goes to voicemail.

“You’ve got my number. I have a proposal. It’ll be worth your consideration.”

He lies in the soft darkness for a long time, not sure if he’s done the right thing by setting this chain of events into motion. But he has to try.


	12. chapter twelve

Amos took a last sip of coffee, glanced at his watch and gave a quiet sigh. Four hours of shift left to go, and probably another hour on top of it by the time he finished . . . On impulse he took his phone out and thumbed through the voicemail list. The newest one was from his daughter. She had some additions to the shopping list, no doubt. The other two were several days old. He had debated deletion, but couldn’t bring himself to do it.

After another hesitation he opened the first message and listened to it, then the second one. Both were short, to the point, and delivered with a harsh urgency that brought a reluctant smile to his lips. He remembered that tone well.

Before he could think twice about it, he hit speed dial and waited. It was early, but he knew his caller was often awake into the small hours.

It was picked up on the second ring. “Took you long enough.”

“Doctor House.” Amos sat back in his chair.

“Come work for me.” A brief silence fell. “You don’t have to think about this. Just do it.”

“You don’t need a nurse.”

“Let me decide that for myself.” House sounded sharp, but under it was a subtle desperation that caught at Amos.

“You were doing well when you left. What’s changed?” The realization hit as he spoke. “You decided to get a prosthesis.” House said nothing. “Doctor House, I’m not a physical therapist—“

“Don’t need one.”

Amos scrubbed a hand over his face. “You kinda do. And you’ve got nurses in Princeton.”

“You know me.” House said it with reluctance. “You . . . you can put up with me. I need someone who can do that.”

 _He knows no one else would put up with him. The question is, can I?_ “How long’s the gig?”

“A year, minimum. Wilson said he’d help you find a place.”

“I have a kid. I need to talk this over with her.”

House snorted. “Kids go with the parental units.”

“I’d be taking her away from everything she knows. It’s a big step. She has a say.” Amos glanced at his watch. “Give me twenty-four hours.”

“Twelve.”

“Twenty-four.” He stood. “Have to go. Talk to you soon,” but the call had already been ended from House’s side.

For the rest of his shift and through the journey home he pushed the offer to the back of his mind. To be truthful, he found it overwhelming on several points. That made him anxious, a state of mind he detested.

So he did his shopping, caught the transfer bus just in time, and came home to an empty apartment. Of course the girl was at school, but at least she’d left the place clean, more or less. A note lay on the table: _spaghetti for dinner tonight pleeeeez_. He smiled a little and put the groceries away, made a batch of sauce with fresh tomatoes, olive oil and herbs, and took himself off to bed. He thought he’d toss and turn, but the moment his head hit the pillow he was out.

The fragrance of garlic and cooked pasta woke him out of a vivid dream that faded as he came to consciousness. He lay in bed and listened to the sound of his daughter in the kitchen as she sang along with her playlist. After a time he got up and headed for the shower.

“We need to talk,” he said after dinner was finished. Kesha paused as she picked up his plate. She set it down, took a seat, and waited. “I’ve been offered a job.”

“Is it better for you than the one you have now?”

“It could be. It would also mean we move to Princeton.” He lifted his gaze to hers. “We make this decision together.”

“I’ve already put in my applications to State and Columbia.”

“You could live with your mother.” He knew she’d refuse.

“We wouldn’t last two days.” Kesha tilted her head a bit. “Nice try.”

“Yeah, I know.” He played with his water glass. “Had to ask.”

“So where would you work?”

“Not where. Who.” He gave her the basics. At the end Kesha sat back and folded her arms.

“Can you trust this guy? He sounds like Sheldon Cooper.”

Amos had to smile. “He’s a gifted physician. They can be on the weird side sometimes. But I trust him, at least on the offer.” To his surprise he found it was true.

“Why do you want to work for him?” Kesha’s gaze was steady, measuring.

“I’m not sure. I could say it’s an honor but that’s debatable. Let’s say it’s more like I’m intrigued by the offer and what it could give both of us.”

“Okay . . . what does that mean?”

Amos took a sip of water before he spoke. “Doctor House is known world-wide as a premier diagnostician. Doctor Wilson is the head of pediatric oncology at Princeton-Plainsboro. Both of them are excellent references. And they could be an in for you, if you decide to go to medical school.”

Kesha shook her head. “That’s a big assumption on your part, Dad. You don’t know that they’ll be willing to help out.”

“True. But it’s worth a try.” He set down his glass. “Think about it.”

“How long?”

“You’ve got till tomorrow.” He smiled as she rolled her eyes. “Thanks for making dinner. You heat up a great sauce.”

“Flattery won’t help.” But when she took his plate, she put her hand on his shoulder for a moment.

When he went out later that evening the weather was miserable, cold and rainy. At least the bus stop wasn’t too crowded. Amos huddled under his umbrella and thought about the offer. If he took it, maybe he could finally get a vehicle of some kind. And a home—not to own, but even a rental would be okay.

 _Blue skies_. The wry thought made him shake his head as his bus lumbered into view. Anyway, he could let it sit at the back of his mind while he worked. For tonight, it would be good enough.

At the end of shift he stopped off in the breakroom and checked his phone. A text from Kesha sat at the top of the queue. It had one word. Amos looked at it for a few moments. Then he thumbed the speed dial.

“Doctor House? The answer is yes.”


	13. chapter thirteen

James had never really been a big fan of weekends. His had often been spent on call or at the side of a patient. Of course that was his choice in general, but it was better than time on his hands with nothing to do aside from watch tv.

That had changed with the arrival of House in his life. Over the years he’d become accustomed to hours spent watching sports, porn, action movies, and late-night talk shows, accompanied by the inevitable pizza or Indian takeout, and beer. Lots of beer. Not so much for him now as it tended to dump pounds on his belly, but enough to keep him satisfied more or less.

Now the situation had changed again. With Amos Williams and his daughter in the apartment a few doors down from House’s, their weekend fare consisted of walks to and from both households, with home-cooked meals and a few music sessions sprinkled in here and there, along with the inevitable sports. All in all, he liked it. Amos was a good man, if also one of few words, and his daughter Kesha was a delight—smart, independent, and a serious traveler. A great cook too—they’d already exchanged a number of recipes . . .

 _How on earth did House find out about that guy in apartment F selling his place?_ He hadn’t quite dared to ask; when dealing with House’s machinations it was better not to know on occasion, if only to plead ignorance later on when everything went pear-shaped.

Still, despite the progress House had made under Amos’s guidance, there was a shade of deep pain over the proceedings that never lifted. James knew full well what it was, but he said nothing, even when House didn’t speak for days on end, drank too much or played the piano till all hours. There was nothing to be said, anyway. Whatever happened next was up to House, and they both knew it.

Still, one evening James was appalled to hear himself say “Why don’t you just call her?”

House didn’t reply right away. It was evening—Friday night to be exact, and they’d stuffed themselves full of pizza and beer while they’d watched some football. As a consequence both of them were half-asleep, lulled by the familiar sound of commentary and crowd noise.

“Way to throw out a _non sequitur_.” House didn’t look at James, just took a large swallow of beer.

“I’d say it’s very much on point. Your behavior leads me to think you believe you’re better off miserable than be the first one to call.”

“Don’t wanna talk about this.” House’s tone was terse now, a warning to back off. James ignored it.

“She’s leaving, you know. She said as much.”

“You talked to her.” House didn’t move. James noted no shock or surprise. _So he’s known about this all along._ Close on that thought came another one: _he’s up to something_. It was time for a little fact-finding.

“Someone mentioned it in a meeting the other day. She’s closing down her practice.” James took a sip of beer and grimaced at the warm, flat taste. “She’ll out-stubborn you on this, you know.” House said nothing. “Are you really that afraid of having to say you were wrong?”

“I wasn’t wrong.” House set his bottle on the floor. “I was mistaken.”

James stared at him, speechless. But not for long. “You have got to be fucking _kidding_ me.”

“Nope.”

“Wait— _wait_ a minute.” James sat up. A gust of anger flapped through him. “Six months and that’s all you’ve got? You made a _mistake_?”

House glanced at him, then away. “It’s enough.”

James studied him. “Did it ever occur to you that you could actually, um, you know . . . let Dana know you were _mistaken?_ ” He lay heavy sarcasm on the last word and saw House flinch. It was a mere flicker, but James knew at least some of his tells by now.

“Need a beer.”

“Get it yourself. So you have no plans to contact Dana?”

“Fuck off.” The harsh reply was a last warning. James ignored it.

“Jesus. I don’t know who’s worse. Both of you are hopeless.”

For answer House picked up his phone and hit speed dial. “Dreads. I need a beer—“

James leaned over and wrested the phone from him. “Sorry, Amos.” He hung up and tossed the phone onto the coffee table, where House couldn’t reach it without some effort.

“Nice way to treat a cripple, Doctor I’m So Compassionate.” House struggled to sit up. “Fuck you, I’ll get my own beer.”

“Gee, there’s a thought.”

James watched House get to his feet with the aid of the canes he’d been coerced into using, at least at home. He didn’t make a production out of it; it was truly difficult. Once upright, he dumped one of the canes and limped into the kitchen. “Bring me one too!” James raised his voice so House would hear him. After a few moments the other man returned with a single bottle clutched in his hand. He popped the top, eased into his spot on the couch and ignored James.

“I see. I’ve got two good legs and ask too many uncomfortable questions, so you’ve decided to pretend I don’t exist.” James sighed. “Why am I not surprised.”

When he returned with his own beer, he opened it, set it on the coffee table, took another slice of pizza from the box and munched. “Bet Dana’s making something good for dinner.” He licked his fingers. “One of those French recipes she learned from her mother.”

House swung his head toward James. His blue eyes blazed with anger and something else, something dark. “Shut up.”

“You think she gets trick or treaters at her place? She’ll probably spend the whole evening with a bowl of candy and no one—”

House kicked the coffee table with his remaining foot. James’s beer tipped on its side and promptly fountained over the side onto the floor. They both watched it soak into the carpet.

“Nice.” James forced the word out.

“Stop attempting to play on my alleged guilt. You of all people should know I don’t have any.”

“The _fuck_ you don’t! You’re so eaten up with it, along with—with shame and pain and whatever else you’ve got in that fortress with forty-foot thick walls you call a soul, you can barely breathe! You know you made a mistake but you can’t bring yourself to admit it because that would mean you weren’t right. Just to inform you, contrary to popular opinion you’re as human as the rest of us, though you like to think you aren’t. So admit it and fix things. That’s if you can. Personally I think you left it about six months too late, but what do I know?” James dumped the rest of his slice in the box and got to his feet. “You can clean up the mess yourself. And that doesn’t mean you call Amos.”

House ignored him. James grabbed his coat and briefcase and headed for the door. “Fine, tune me out all you like. It won’t change the truth.” He opened the door, “See you later.”

On the way home he felt the first twinges of his own guilt begin to nibble at him. He dialed Amos’s number and smiled when it was answered on the first ring.

“Don’t worry, Doctor Wilson. He’s cleaning it up now. Under protest, of course.”

They exchanged a few comments, and James ended the call. House was in good hands, for the moment anyway. Whatever happened next . . .well, they’d deal with things as they came along, as always.


	14. chapter fourteen

_October 31st_

Dana finished her _café au lait_ and contemplated another order. She’d already had two cups, but the thought of going home to empty silence held no appeal. Besides, she hadn’t eaten anything to speak of yesterday and now she was hungry for once.

She got up to put in her order and glanced at the day outside as she waited. It was miserable—blustery, cold and rainy, the same pattern they’d dealt with all year off and on. It would be a bad night for the children out trick or treating. She’d been invited to a party, but the weather gave her a good excuse to stay home. She had no real desire to socialize, anyway.

 _That’s been true for some time now._ She ignored the internal comment, took her coffee and second chocolate croissant with thanks and went back to her spot. At least she had her journals, and a new translation of Balzac a patient had given her in the erroneous assumption that she liked his work. She’d do her best to read it anyway. It kept her mind occupied, and that was enough excuse.

She’d finished with one journal and started on the next when someone stole the last bite of chocolate croissant she’d left on her plate. Dana looked up, but whatever she’d planned to say flew straight out of her head.

“Ha.” Greg lifted a brow. “Knew that would make you pay attention.”

Her first coherent thought was _he’s so thin_. The second was _he’s got a prosthesis_. He wore his usual outfit—pea coat, a tee under an oxford shirt, jacket, jeans and sneaks—and his cane was new, heavier and built with a better grip. But he was close enough for her to see his knuckles were white, and there was sharp anxiety behind the mockery in his vivid gaze.

Dana sat back and didn’t speak. She had nothing to say anyway—shock had robbed her of words for the moment. Greg moved to the spot opposite her and settled into the chair. He managed it fairly well, but it was clear it wasn’t easy. He set the cane aside, reached out and took her cup, tasted the contents, made a face.

“Like a little coffee with your milk?” She didn’t reply, just watched him. He pushed the cup toward her. “So you’re not speaking to me. That’s so uninspired. You’ve had six months to think up another approach.” When she didn’t answer Greg dropped his gaze to the tabletop. “You’re planning to leave town and you didn’t call.” He sounded almost sullen. She took her cup back. “You could have called.” She kept quiet. “So this is about one-upmanship.”

“No.” It came out just as she hoped it would, cool and disinterested. Greg’s gaze flashed up to hers. Just for a moment she saw what lay behind the mocking façade—pain, fear, and a sorrow so profound it took her breath. Then it was gone, tucked away behind a glower.

Silence fell, broken by the clatter of dishes, muted conversation and soft music. After a few moments Dana picked up her pen and opened the second journal. She had no idea how she would be able to concentrate, but it didn’t really matter right now anyway. This exchange had to play out before she could act or make a final decision.

“So that’s it. You make me come to you first and now you plan to ignore me.” Greg sounded disgusted. Dana didn’t look up at him.

“No.” She kept her tone calm and said nothing more.

“You’re a control freak. You should know that already, I don’t have to remind you.” He hesitated. “Need some caffeine,” he muttered, and got to his feet. It took him a few moments to get steady. Then he turned and went to the counter. Dana watched him charm the server into the delivery of a plate of raisin bars and his double espresso to the table. When he returned, he took a couple of bars and pushed the rest toward her. “Eat. You’re too skinny.” Dana pretended not to see the plate. Greg gave it a nudge with his finger. “Go on.”

She put down her pen. “No thank you.”

“Come on, you know you’re hungry.” He bit into a bar, made loud chewing noises. A wave of humiliation surged through her. She knew that to give in to it would be disastrous, but neither would she endure being goaded.

“Gregory.” She used a quiet tone, but she saw him wince all the same. She tried to hang onto her detachment; it was all she had left to keep her from an emotional display that would only make things worse. “Why are you here?”

“Uh oh.” He opened his eyes wide, stuffed the last of the raisin bar into his mouth and spoke through the food. “I’m in trouble.”

 _So much for detachment_. Dana set her coffee aside and shoved back her chair. As she rose Greg reached out and grasped her wrist. She resisted the urge to pull free, even as she noted his fingers were cold. He’d expect her to react, and she’d be damned if she’d make any gesture that would give him a chance to hurt her even more.

“Going somewhere?” The derisive note in his words slapped at her.

“I came here to work. That’s no longer possible.” She stayed still. “Let go of me please.”

“You’re a hypocrite.” He sounded angry now. “You wanted to talk, here I am.” Dana closed her eyes. She remembered her mother, white-faced and trembling with fury at some careless, cruel remark from her husband, and at the heart of it, a wound so deep _maman_ wouldn’t know its true cost until much later. “So that’s it. You’ll just leave Philadelphia, and plant yourself someplace else where you can forget you made a mistake with someone like me.”

She knew she should work with him, that he used provocation in an attempt to break her professional mask and spill everything stored up within, and yet she couldn’t let it go unanswered. “You say that to me—you come here after—after months of silence _. ._.” She heard her voice shake and hated her weakness. “How _dare_ you come here, to a place you—you know means home and refuge for me . . .” Tears stung her eyes. “All to mock me for telling the truth when--when you never wanted to hear it.” She stared down at his hand. “Let go.”

“Dana.” His fingers loosened a bit he didn’t release her. “I want to hear it now, but you have to listen--”

She yanked her hand away. “You _know_ the truth! You knew it six months ago. Don’t turn this around on me! I’m not the one who—who decided--” Blindly she grabbed for her laptop, slapped it shut, stuffed it in her messenger bag with the journals, snatched up her purse. “I didn’t make the decision to amputate. And that’s the last time I’ll ever say it. Believe me or don’t.” She turned to flee, unable to stand having him so near.

“ _Wait!_ ” He stood and leaned in so his face was close to hers. “I believe you. Dana,” he raised his voice. “ _I believe you_.”

She hesitated, afraid to look at him. He exhaled. “Sit down.” She didn’t move. “Okay. _Please_ sit down.”

Much against her better judgment, she turned back to the table, moved her chair, sat. Greg did the same. She stared at the tabletop.

“I’m sure this isn’t news to you, but when I get scared, I . . . I push people away.” She could barely hear him. “When the accident happened . . . when I woke up and it was—was like before, when the blood clot happened, I . . . I . . .” He paused. “ _Say_ something, dammit!” Dana shook her head, unable to speak. Greg sighed. “It’s the six months thing, isn’t it? I don’t—I—I just said I push people away—“

“Trust.” She almost couldn’t get the word past her lips. “You don’t trust me. Maybe you never really have.”

“I do. Dana, I trust you. I believe you.” He sounded desperate now. “If you don’t trust me, I don’t blame you.”

“You want to prove your self-imposed rules to be true.” He had come to her first, but she’d underestimated the enormity of her own pain and anger. This was the pitfall of a personal relationship with a client, and now both of them would have to pay the price for her choice. “You needed to see what would break me . . . break us. I think you’ve just found out. Congratulations. You get to be right. I hope it’s enough.” She got to her feet once more, gathered up her things, and went to the counter. “He’s paying,” she told the server, and walked out into the cold rain.


	15. chapter fifteen

_November 1st_

“Are you sure this is a good idea? I’m not sure this is a good idea. At all.”

Greg doesn’t bother to reply to Wilson’s comment. They’re on their way to Philly. It’s just past rush hour and traffic is beginning to lighten up a bit, though there are still snarls and congestion. Greg keeps his attention on the music. He hasn’t been in a car since his return home from the hospital. He wouldn’t be in one now if this trip wasn’t necessary. Wilson had offered to take the back roads, but another hour of travel time holds no appeal either.

“From what you told me, it sounds like she’s done. I hate to say that, but all the signs are there.” Wilson passes a couple of trucks. When the silence goes on too long, he tries again. “House, you didn’t talk to her for—“

He glares at Wilson in the rear view mirror. “Don’t need a recap.”

“Apparently you do.” Someone cuts in ahead of them and Wilson brakes. Greg grips the seat back. It infuriates him that his hands are trembling.

“Dammit, watch where the fuck you’re going!”

“Hey, it wasn’t me!” Wilson sounds petulant. “I told you—“

“Oh, shut up.” Greg forces himself to sit back and huddles inside his coat, closes his eyes. This has to work. He isn’t sure what he’ll do if it doesn’t. “Put on some music.” He takes a quick peek to see Wilson reach for the radio. “I know you’re already listening to Christmas carols. Put it on something else.”

His driver obliges. After a moment or two, a rhythmic melody fills the interior—jazz from the local college station. Greg feels his anxiety subside just a little.

“You really think she’ll talk to you?” Wilson is careful to keep his tone neutral, that’s abundantly clear—trying hard not to spook his friend. Greg stares out the window at the lights. It’s sunset now, and darker than normal because of heavy overcast.

“Doesn’t matter.” He has no intention of giving up. He’d watched her in the café, had seen the pain he’d caused and the anger, but no revulsion or hatred. He could work with that.

“You’re headed into stalker territory, you know. Forcing her to let you in—“

“I’m not forcing anyone. Mind your own business.”

The other man sinks into a resentful silence after that, but Greg doesn’t care. He’s too busy wondering how on earth he’ll pull this off. Even if Gardener doesn’t hate him, she’s still angry enough to keep a good mad on for some time. If he gets it wrong, it’ll take even longer to get her back.

 _This is a spectacular fuck-up_. It isn’t the first time he’s thought that. If he’s honest with himself he knew it almost from the time he could think clearly, about two days after he instituted his scorched-earth policy. “I should have called her,” he says aloud. Wilson snorts.

“Ya _think?_ ”

“No kibitzing from the cabbie.”

“Uh uh. I’m driving _and_ paying for the gas. I get to say anything I want.” Wilson peers at the exit sign. “Might be a good idea to get something to eat.”

Greg’s stomach is already in knots. “Nope.”

“Well, I could stand to pick up a burger. I haven’t had anything since this morning.”

They end up at a drive-thru, where Wilson gets a cheeseburger, a double order of fries and a couple of small Cokes. Greg stares at the food. It smells good, for cheap stuff; he just can’t eat it.

“Wow. Never thought I’d see the day when you refused food.” Wilson holds up a fry, munches it. Greg glares at him.

“You . . . you’re _enjoying_ this.”

Wilson chews and swallows. When he can speak he says “Yes. Yes I am.”

There’s no reply worth offering that wouldn’t start a huge battle, and he’s not in the mood for once. Greg sets the Coke in a holder and places the fries next to Wilson’s order. He could just roll down the window and dump them that way, but those innocent little potato sticks haven’t done anything to merit that kind of treatment. Besides, if he leaves them behind it’s inevitable that Wilson will eat them, and ruining the endless diet is a small but worthy payback for all the pontificating that’s gone on in the last couple of days.

Soon enough they’re on their way to Gardener’s place. Greg watches the buildings go by, people congregated in doorways or sidewalks—it’s a Friday night, prime time for dinner and dancing and sex. He wishes he was in a bar somewhere, killing his liver with plenty of whiskey or bourbon.

After much too short a time, they pull up in front of the townhouse. Someone’s home; warm yellow light spills through the windows of what Greg knows is the apartment on the second floor. Wilson puts the car in park and shuts off the engine. “Here we are. I’ll wait.”

“No you won’t.” Greg takes a firm hold of his cane.

“But if she—“

“Doesn’t matter.”

“You’re gonna walk all the way back to Princeton?” Wilson shakes his head. “Come on, House. Don’t be ridiculous.”

For answer he struggles out of the back seat and on his feet. It takes him some time, but he gets it done. “Go home,” he says into the interior of the car, shuts the door, straightens, turns to face the house. His pulse rate is elevated, and he feels a little light-headed; he probably should have eaten something, but no doubt by now he’d be puking up anything he put in his stomach. As he moves forward he hears the car start, and then he’s alone, to succeed or crash and burn.

The walk to the door is the longest he’s made in some time, at least in terms of emotion. He knows Gardener has every reason to turn him away, but there’s a chance, just a chance, she’ll let him in, or at least listen. He hasn’t thought yet about what would happen if she refuses. He can’t think about it; he has to focus on this moment, this liminal space between what happened and what’s to come, when he can half-convince himself anything is possible.

At last he’s at the door. Greg stands there for a few moments. It’s a chilly night, but even with the strong city lights he can see a few stars high above in between the clouds, sprinkled across the dark sky. He stares up at them, takes a deep breath, pushes the doorbell intercom.

“Yes?” Gardener answers after a short interval. She sounds tired, and preoccupied.

“Dana.” And just that fast, his throat closes up. He can’t say anything else. There’s no answer. His heart sinks; she won’t come to him . . . He fumbles for his phone and hopes it’s charged. Wilson put a taxi app on it somewhere. As he brings it out the door opens and Gardener stands before him, clad in leggings and a long-sleeved shirt and her silk robe. She gazes at him for what feels like an eternity before she moves aside for him to come in. He does so, and crosses his fingers in a metaphorical sense as he limps over the threshold and into her place. 


	16. chapter sixteen

Dana set aside the last file, closed her eyes for a moment, then glanced at the clock. It was well past time to close the office; she'd sent Alex home early, though he'd offered to stay. He'd earned an afternoon off before the weekend, anyway. She shut down her laptop and stood to gather her things.

It took only a few minutes to go upstairs. The apartment was quiet, with just the sound of the wind outside to accompany her as she set her briefcase by the couch. She glanced at the fireplace, but decided against a fire; she'd made tentative plans to go to the cottage for the next week or so, and the idea of raking out cold ashes in the morning held no appeal.

She'd just changed into a comfortable shirt, an old pair of leggings and her favorite robe when the intercom buzzed. Dana went to answer it, her mind preoccupied with plans for the weekend. "Yes?"

"Dana."

She went still as shock and awareness coursed through her like some wild flood. On an impulse she didn't want to name she walked out the door, took the lift to the first floor, and hurried through the foyer, past moving boxes and bags of clothing headed for the thrift shop.

Greg stood on the stoop with his phone in hand. At her appearance he lifted his face to hers, startled; he hadn't expected her to respond, that much was clear. It was cold enough for her to see his breath. It matched the slight rise and fall of his chest under his pea coat. Without a word she stood aside. After a moment's hesitation he entered, and didn't look at her as he walked past.

She took him to the office. While she switched on the lights he stood in front of her desk, his gaze directed at the carpet. Dana moved behind the desk and sat in her comfortable office chair. She tilted it back a bit, folded her arms, and waited.

"Pretty mean of you to make me pay the bill at that place where you hang out." Greg's voice was quiet, devoid of its usual mocking edge. When she didn't reply, he shifted his weight and winced a little. "Mind if I sit down?"

Dana inclined her head slightly. Greg rolled his eyes, but he lowered himself into the chair. Once he was settled he stared at her. "Talk. You look ridiculous with that expression on your face."

"What do you want?"

"For you to listen to me instead of getting emotional." His rough voice held impatience, but also a desperation that caught at her. "I said I believe you. If you need me to keep saying it—"

"Why didn't you believe me when I told you at the beginning?"

He didn't want to answer her, it was clear. "It makes no difference now."

"It makes quite a bit of difference, to me at least." Dana kept her gaze on him. He glared at her. "I'd like you to tell me what you were thinking and feeling when you told me to leave."

Just for a moment, she saw fear and defeat in his expression. "You should be able to figure that out for yourself." It came out as a sullen mutter.

"I would rather hear it from you." She marveled at how calm she sounded. "If you require a session, I have time available now."

He didn't reply right away, though his glower dimmed a bit. At last he nodded. "'kay."

She escorted him to the equipment room. "Go to the platform and remove your clothes please."

Greg stopped next to her. "But we—we've already been through all this."

"I am not required to explain myself to you." She kept her tone remote. "While we are in session you will only speak when spoken to. You will also address me as milady."

"Son of a _bitch_." Now he sounded exasperated. "Come on, Gardener—"

"Those are the usual terms, as you well know. Accept, or decline and leave."

Greg growled under his breath but limped to the platform. "I'll need to keep the cane, milady." He said it without mockery; it was clear he wanted to gain her favor, but he also still respected the rules of the session because he knew now they worked both ways. She remembered the first time he'd come to her, the terror under the bravado. Once she had thought he had learned to truly trust her. Now she would learn if he had.

"Do what you must."

Dana watched as he stripped off everything, including his prosthesis. She hadn't asked him to do so, but he probably thought the shock value of the display would be to his advantage. It was, but not in the way he imagined. Dana looked at his mutilated body and thought of the months of pain and struggle he'd endured. And she'd been shut out of all of it . . . With an effort she concentrated on the task at hand and rose to walk to the platform. Greg watched her, his vivid gaze fixed on her face.

She brought over a padded stool, but he refused it. As she bound him to the cross she breathed in his scent, a familiar mixture of bourbon, tobacco and himself, and found she was too close. With deliberation she moved back and went to the highboy where she kept her tools. She chose a soft doeskin flogger; it had been some time since she'd used one on him, and his pain sensitivity might be elevated.

 _You must think of him as a patient, nothing more_. She took his measure; his pulse rate was up a bit, his breathing shallow. He was nervous too. She gained heart from it as she began her work.

It was astonishing how quickly she slipped into the routine; she knew his vulnerabilities. Dana trailed the flogger over his shoulders, his chest, her movements slow and deliberate. As she worked her way down his belly Greg tipped his head back, eyes closed. His wrists twisted in the padded shackles.

"Why did you tell me to leave?" She ran her hand lightly over his right hip, felt him shudder. He didn't answer. "You were scared, angry, remembering when you woke up from the surgery after the blood clot . . ."

He twisted away from her touch. "If you already know, it's—it's pointless—ahhh . . ." He gasped as she gave his nipples a gentle slap.

"But I don't know." She caressed his right butt cheek, ran her thumb over the dimple. "Tell me."

"Nothing to tell. I—I acted irrationally, I did something—something stupid—" He groaned when she took him in hand. He was half-erect; he trembled in her clasp. Dana worked him gently, then let go. "Milady—"

"You deliberately threw me out of your room and your life because of an emotional moment." She gave him a little smack with the flogger. "I don't believe you."

"What do you want me to say? I can't—can't—" His breath hitched.

"What can't you say?"

" _Dammit!_ " He brought his head down and glared at her. "This isn't about finding out the truth, you just want your pound of flesh for humiliating you!"

Dana almost smiled. She paused and gave him a level stare. "So you believe I'm that shallow. Good to know."

Greg growled and pulled at his bonds. "NO! That's not—I didn't—"

"Then _tell me_ what you mean and stop fucking around." She kept her voice level and cold. "I'll continue to ask until you do."

He stared at her, then turned his face away and licked his lips. He looked exhausted. Dana lowered the flogger. She set it on the tray, took the carafe of water and poured some into a cup. In silence she came closer and offered the water. He moved his head forward as she put the cup to his lips; he drank deep, and then rested his cheek against her fingers. She could feel him shaking.

"When you came in, that morning—I didn't see . . ." He hesitated. "I didn't see you."

"Who or what did you see?"

"I'm . . . I'm not sure." The pain and confusion in his words caught at her. "I don't know why I don't know."

It was a partial truth, but at least he'd given her that much. They could work on the rest later, if he wanted to do so. Dana started to take her hand away, but Greg pressed his lips to her palm. She stopped, shaken by the feel of him, his warm breath. On impulse she leaned in, kissed the corner of his mouth. His soft gasp went through her like an electric shock.

"Oh, you _fool_ ," she whispered. He made a noise, a ghost of a laugh or a sigh. When she looked at him she saw tears on his lashes; he trembled as he exhaled, a long, slow breath. And just that fast, the overt anger and pain began to leave her. She tried to hold onto them, but they slipped away like sand through her fingers. She watched them go, resigned to the truth of the situation.

"Session's over." Her words were quiet. "What do you want to do now?"

Greg didn't open his eyes. "Stay," he said at last. "I want to stay, milady. Please."

It took her a few moments to speak, but she knew her answer, though she didn't want to give it. "Yes. Stay. Please."


	17. chapter seventeen

It’s late—after twelve now, and they’re having a midnight snack in the glassed-in terrace. Greg appreciates the fact that Gardener doesn’t wear a bra under her shirt and silk robe; her nipples show through the thin material. She must be cold; the terrace is heated, but her feet are bare. Still she says nothing, just sets the butlers tray on the stand between them and sits, graceful as always.

“You must be thinking dire thoughts if that frown is anything to go by.” She sips her coffee. Greg sees she has no plate, though there’s a basket of rolls and croissants available, as well as some cheese and ham. As he had noticed at their meeting in the café she is too thin, and there are faint smudges under her eyes. Annoyed and distressed by this knowledge, he takes a plate from the stack on the tray and puts it in front of her.

“Eat.”

She says nothing. Before she would have teased him, taken a roll and made him eat the first bite. Now she keeps her distance, and it’s down to him and his stupidity. He selects a croissant, splits it in half, places a slice of ham on both halves, and takes one for himself.

“I’m showing you how it’s done,” he says through the food. Gardener looks down at the croissant, then away.

“Later.” She sounds cool and uninterested; that isn’t like her at all. He misses the warmth that’s so natural to her. He watches her as she takes another taste of coffee, and then he remembers: she has a long-standing diagnosis of clinical depression. All the hallmarks are there—flattened affect, lack of interest in everyday routines, no appetite, emotional detachment. He’s responsible for this, and feels shame at the knowledge.

“You have to take your meds with food. So eat.” He winces at how harsh he sounds. Gardener doesn’t respond at first. Then she puts her hand over his, takes his fingers in a gentle clasp. She says nothing, just holds his hand. “You don’t have to do this, you know.” All she does is offer him a slight smile, but she traces a circle over his skin with her thumb—a caress, one he hasn’t felt in months. Her touch loosens something inside him, some place that’s been locked up tight since he woke and realized where he was, that he was in trouble and helpless to stop what was happening.

“It wasn’t you.” The words come out of nowhere. “Dana, it . . . it wasn’t you. I was—I was in shock and scared and half-stoned on morphine, and when you came in I saw . . .” He pauses, tries to get things in order. “It was a flashback. Sort of.” Surprise and realization collide in his mind.

“Can you tell me what you saw? What you remember?”

_(“You’re a lucky young man. A few weeks in a cast and you’ll be good as new. No more sliding on bannister rails though.” The doctor eases Greg’s shirtsleeve down over the plaster. “Here’s your mother.”_

_She stands in the doorway with that look on her face—the one that means she’s deeply disappointed in him, she doesn’t understand his constant need to misbehave—‘misbehave’, that’s the exact word she uses. Greg wonders if the doctor will tell her about the finger-mark bruises on his wrist. Probably not; this is a military infirmary after all, and it would get back to his dad eventually. And anyway, Dad hadn’t meant to hurt him. He’d grabbed the closest available limb to stop a fall, and if he’d gripped too hard and added a couple of rough shakes, whose fault was that? Dad had a right to get mad. At least that’s what his mother had told him often enough._

_“Gregory . . .” Mom comes into the room. “Are you all right?” At his muttered reply she sighs softly. “Your father said something about you playing on the stairs, he had to catch you and he . . . well, at least you’re in one piece.” She stands in front of him now. “This could have been much worse. You’re fortunate he was there to help you. I just don’t understand why you have to misbehave, Greg.”_

_He stares at the floor because there’s no reply he can make that will change anything . . . but he’s able to think whatever he likes, and someday he’ll be out of school and away from all this, away from the endless rules he always breaks and people who don’t ask why he does things. He’ll be free then.)_

“There’s more,” Gardener prompts gently when he is silent. “Isn’t there?”

“Yes,” he’s astonished to discover she’s right. “Yes, there is.”

_(The first thing he sees when he comes out of the coma is Stacy, and he’s never been so glad to have her close. She’s crying, her mascara’s all messed up and she hasn’t slept, but he loves her for it._

_“I’m sorry . . . Greg, I’m so sorry.” Her dark eyes are haunted. He wants to reassure her that everything’s all right, he’s come through the procedure okay, even if he’s still having some trouble waking up. He looks to the left, sees what is unmistakably a morphine pump, and wonders if he should call a nurse to clear the unneeded equipment out of his room . . ._

_“I didn’t know what to do—please understand, I tried to do what was right—“_

_He notices the line from the pump is still hooked into his IV, and there are numbers on the display. Puzzled, he frowns—why . . .? And then he feels that deep ache, the one he’d known before the blinding agony of the clot. Panic fills him for a moment, to be swept away by sudden, unwelcome insight._

_“Operated.” His voice is rough with disuse. He struggles to sit up, to_ see _what’s happened, but he can’t do it._

_“They took out the dead muscle. Otherwise it would have poisoned you, that’s what she—what they told me.”_

_“NO . . .” He tries to fight the truth, but it’s far too late now, and the author of his new reality, the one he’s loved as best he can and who is now his betrayer, sits at his side and cries silent tears. He tries to yell at her to go away, to get out, and even that is denied him as he slides back into unconsciousness.)_

“What could be more natural than to expect a third betrayal?” Gardener continues to hold his hand.

“You didn’t . . .” Greg stares at her fingers. “You knew.”

“I suspected. But I couldn’t know for sure until you told me.”

He lifts his gaze to her face. “Six months. You waited all that time.”

“You had to come to me.”

“You were so sure I would.”

She shakes her head. “No. I know this is an old injury that’s never healed.” For a moment the mask of cool detachment drops and he sees what he’s done, the deep wounding pain she’s lived with for many weeks, thinking he’d pushed her away when he’d been fighting phantoms. And yet she’s allowed him in, offered him help, listened to him when she had every right to kick his sorry ass to the curb.

He is invited to stay in the extra bedroom. There are no moving boxes here, no signs that she’s ready to leave him behind. He’s exhausted now, so he accepts the invitation and says nothing when she leaves him, the door closed behind her. But as he drifts off to sleep with the familiar, comforting feel of clean linen sheets against his skin, he knows there’s more to come, and he’s not sure he can do what needs to be done. All he can do is try.


	18. chapter eighteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: the comment about trauma was taken from a tweet posted by an online friend. I felt it was apropos and too good not to use. --Brig

_November 1st_

It’s in the small hours of the morning when Greg is awakened by the faint sound of a piano. After a few notes he knows what it is—a Chopin nocturne, opus nine number two in E flat major. He lies in the soft darkness and listens to Gardener play. Her technique holds an echo of her father’s style, though hers is more measured and precise. But he can feel the emotion in her phrasing, the lightness of her touch. The music is reflective of her inner self—joy, calm, passion, honesty, and above all a pensive contemplation that is as much a part of her as her grey eyes and slight smile.

When the music ends he pushes aside the covers, puts on the silk bathrobe and slipper, settles into the wheelchair provided, and heads out to the living room. As he enters she is still seated at the piano. There’s one table lamp on, otherwise everything is shrouded in shadows. As he approaches he sees her wipe her eyes, a simple gesture, and then she moves over a bit to make room for him on the piano bench. He accepts her unspoken invitation and sits next to her. After a brief silence he says “Play more.”

Much to his surprise, she begins a song he knows within a couple of bars—‘Trampoline’, one of Joe Henry’s older efforts. She doesn’t rock it though; it’s a straight ballad, slow and serious—a declaration of intent, pure and intense.

_I've been talking in my sleep_

_You once kissed me not to hear me speak_

_And loved me just so you could leave_

_Every bit of life wrung out of me_

_And this time I'm not coming down_

_This time I'm not coming down_

When she is finished, she rests her hands on the keys, then withdraws them into her lap. On impulse he reaches out, takes one of her hands in his. Her fingers are cold. “Not your usual style,” he ventures, just for something to say.

She nods. “You left some albums here. One day I put this one on and listened to it. This song . . .” She looks down.

“Is . . . is it still how you feel?” He chafes her hand gently.

“I don’t know.” There is a subtle anguish in her words that shocks him somehow. It shouldn’t; he knows he’s wounded her in the worst way, because he’d led her to believe she could trust him. Still . . .

“I warned you.” He has to say it. “I told you I’d . . . I’d hurt you, in the end.”

She is silent for a few moments. “People say that to excuse anything they decide to do.” There’s no heat in her words, but the pain is more evident now. Still, it’s not an accusation. Not yet.

“It’s the truth. I’ve hurt everyone in my life, pushed them away.”

Gardener looks at him then. “You really believe you’re unique in that regard?” Her fingers curl around his. “Relationships aren’t supposed to be either-or, Greg. They’re more like give-and-take. You once said John House had an insane moral compass. Well, you’ve got a set of internal self-judgments that would put an Old Testament prophet to shame.”

He can’t help but smile a little. “You’ve been thinking about this.”

“Of course I have.” She is silent a moment. “It seems my choice is to either walk away, or stay with you and expect more of the same, unless you decide otherwise. Would you say that’s a fair assessment?”

He can’t answer her. A cold lump of dread sits in the pit of his stomach. She turns to him just a little; he can’t read the expression on her face.

“Why did you wait six months to talk to me?” He looks down at her. Her expression is impassive, her gaze inquiring, nothing more. “Was it a test?” Her words are quiet, but they slash at him all the same. He says nothing. “Gregory, do you trust me?”

There it is, the one question he’s feared this whole time. “I can’t give you the answer you want.”

“What answer do you think I want?”

“Stop it.” He pushes her hand away. “Stop—stop analyzing everything I say and do! I didn’t call because I knew you wouldn’t—“ He stops, the final words trembling on his lips.

“You knew I’d never forgive you.” When he is silent she exhales, a long, slow breath. “We’ve talked about this before, this tendency you have to assign emotions and judgments to people to protect yourself from more betrayal. That creates a self-fulling prophecy.” She pauses. “Forgiveness is my decision to make, not yours. If you’d asked me six months ago, I would have said there was nothing to forgive. You’re a human being, you were hurt and acted to protect yourself. Now you must understand once and for all that you have a choice in how you handle situations like this. You like to think you don’t, but you do. If we’re to continue, you must learn this and act on it.”

“Trying to change me,” he dares to say. Gardener shakes her head.

“No, just reminding you that you aren’t locked into a pattern of behavior. And I have a duty to maintain my own self-respect. I don’t refute your trauma, but I’m not responsible for bearing the brunt of your inability to unpack it.” She glances up at him. “You really can trust me, you know.”

“Not sure if that’s a warning or a statement of intent.”

“More of a reminder.” She stretches a little, and Greg can see now she’s almost drooping with tiredness. Once again he’s pushed her well past her limitations, with no thought of anyone but himself.

“You should go to bed.” His words are harsh, though he didn’t mean them to be. Gardener nods.

“You too.” She stands, extends a hand. He takes it.

They move together to his bedroom. At the door she turns to him. “Good night,” she says in her quiet way.

“You’re—you’re not leaving? I mean—not tonight—here. This place. Philly.” He winces at the clumsy words. She doesn’t answer right away.

“I’ll stay.” But he hears the unspoken corollary. Then she is gone into the soft shadows, and he’s alone with one simple truth: he has to find a way to earn back her trust, and he has no idea how to go about it. He carries that knowledge to bed with him, the only partner he has . . . for now.

_‘Nocturne, opus 9, no. 2,’ Frederic Chopin_

_‘Trampoline,’ Joe Henry_


	19. chapter nineteen

_November 17th_

He’s back in her life. And yet . . . he isn’t.

Greg opens the door to her apartment with his old set of keys, which means he can claim he didn’t break in. He’s planned this for a couple of weeks now—to arrive early for a session and slip upstairs while she’s with her prior appointment. There are things her personal space can tell him that he won’t get from conversation with her. She’s talking to him, but still buttoned up inside. He wants to know what she’s feeling, how she’s handling things. This little bit of exploration should give him some clues.

The first thing he sees is a glass of wine on the stand by her favorite chair, in the terrace. It’s half-empty, and sits next to her personal tablet. He limps over, boots it up. The battery is low, but there’s enough juice to show him she’s been listening to Spotify. First album on the list: Back to Black. “ _Shit_ ,” he mutters, and glares at the glass of wine.

The kitchen is neat and tidy, as always. But there’s nothing out on the counter—no bowl of fruit, no flowers. And the breadbox holds only half a loaf of sourdough, stale and dry. The fridge is in a similar state—basics and little else. It’s a major warning sign, he knows that. In growing apprehension he moves out into the hallway.

He hesitates for a moment before he goes into her bedroom—not out of fear, but because of the memories that crowd in whether he wants them to or not: Dana in the soft golden light, her face lifted to his . . . the quiet talk after making love, settling into sleep . . . Greg closes his eyes for a moment, then continues.

She’s not shacking up with anyone else, that much is clear. He didn’t think she was, anyway. He’s not here to check on her fidelity, it was never in question. And even on some remote chance she had taken someone else to her bed, he wouldn’t blame her . . . though of course he’d have to find her partner and rip them limb from limb.

The nightstand has her meds and a carafe of water. Anti-depressants, over the counter sleeping pills, an herbal supplement—rhodiola. The official prescription has several refills listed on the label. He wonders who she’s seeing for her own therapy—something else he should check into. He picks up the bottle, shakes it; about half full. From the date on the last fill, she’s been taking it per instructions. With care he sets the bottle down and looks up, to find Gardener in the doorway watching him.

“It’s time for your session,” she says in her quiet way, and then she leaves him there. Greg stares at her retreating figure. He’d expected more emotion, more . . . something. But the clinical depression she’s struggling against has taken its toll. After a few moments he follows her.

The office is warm and comfortable, as always; his seat is at the right height for him to transfer easily from the wheelchair, and hot coffee’s available. Gardener is meticulous about making sure her patients are at ease. Greg settles in and watches Gardener. She looks back at him, her expression calm, even neutral. So the fortress is still locked up tight with sentries posted every ten feet, good to know.

“Nothing to say about discovering me in your boudoir.” He tastes the coffee. It’s excellent, of course. It wouldn’t dare to be anything else.

“Did you find what you were looking for?”

He cradles his cup. “You’re taking ADs.”

She nods, apparently unconcerned. “You knew that already.”

“Drinking in the evenings, listening to Amy Winehouse. That’s so 2006.”

“I usually have a glass of red after supper. As for the music, Amy’s always been on my list.”

“But bumped to the top now.” He eases his weight to his left hip. “Breakup music, I’m betting.”

Gardener tilts her head. She regards him for a few moments, her expression impassive, assessing—the consummate professional shrink. “You could have just asked me about all of this, you know.”

“And be told you’re fine, you’re coping, you’re taking it one day at a time—all the usual bullshit.” Greg leans forward a little and gives her the eyes-wide, intense look that works on almost everyone else. It’s a long shot, but worth a try. “I hurt you badly, but I can’t make things right if you won’t open up to me.”

She doesn’t answer right away. “I’m not fine. But I am coping, and taking it one day at a time. That’s all I can do. What I’d like to know is how you’re handling this.”

“You’re—you’re not fine.” Somehow, to hear her say it brings it home in a way he never anticipated, though of course he’s known this intellectually for some time now. His heart lurches at the simplicity of the words. “Gardener, what—“

“This is your session, Greg. Not mine.” She says it gently, but he feels the iron hidden under the velvet. “Please tell me how you’re doing.”

“I’d be a lot better if you’d explain what you mean by ‘I’m not fine.’” He sets his coffee aside. “Come on, truth or dare.”

She looks down at her own cup. “ _No_.” It’s so soft he can barely hear her. “Don’t ask again.”

He’s silent, shocked at the tiny glimpse she’s afforded him of the immense pain she lives in every day—caused by him. They sit there in silence, she on her side of things, he on his.

“’kay,” he says at last, and they begin an hour of what amounts to nothing, from his point of view at least.

Later, when he’s back in Princeton and ensconced on the couch, with a bowl of curry and a cold beer at the ready, he can’t concentrate on the local news. He doesn’t give a shit about the inevitable downward spiral of the government, the state of the weather, even sports. With a silent sigh he switches off the channel and pulls up Spotify. It’s the work of a few moments to find the album and the track at the head of Gardener’s list.

As the song plays he thinks of her looking out over the Philly skyline, a view they’d shared many times, glass of wine in hand as Amy sings softly in the deep silence. Later Dana will go through the quiet hallways to her bedroom, and follow her daily routine: clothes removed and sorted for the weekend wash, makeup off, teeth brushed, meds taken, then into bed with a book her only company. That’s wrong in so many ways he can’t begin to count them. She should be with him, settled in at his side. He needs her strength and warmth, but she needs him too—a crazy-ass idea, but it’s true all the same.

Somehow he has to find a way to fill that empty place for both of them. But until she gives him more to work with, he’s stuck where he is. And so is she.

_self-professed, profound_

_til the chips were down_

_though you’re a gambling man_

_love is a losing hand_

_‘Love Is A Losing Game,’ Amy Winehouse_


	20. chapter twenty

_November 19th_

Dana glanced at her watch and took another sip of now-tepid mineral water. Greg was half an hour past their agreed-on meeting time, and he hadn’t called her or answered when she’d tried his number a couple of times. This wasn’t unusual behavior for him, but to show up late for a date he’d suggested in the first place . . . She struggled against the automatic thought that it was yet another test. She’d give him a little more time before she went home. It was a raw, blustery evening, and she didn’t relish the thought of the drive back to Philadelphia in this weather.

She glanced at the entranceway, then took a discreet look around her. The club was one she and Greg both enjoyed; it was an informal place with a well-stocked bar, decent kitchen, and a small stage where local musicians held forth most nights. The music was mainly blues and usually offered through pickup sessions, with an occasional official band on the weekends.

Her phone chirped at her. It wasn’t a call, just a reminder to take her meds. Dana fished the little enamel container from her purse, extracted her anti-depressants, and washed them down with the last of the mineral water. The temptation to stop taking them was as strong as ever, but she set it aside. She hated the side effects of the medication; still, going without was far worse. Until this depression lifted, she’d follow her own doctor’s advice.

As she tucked the container away, someone took a seat at her table. She looked up with a slight smile. It wasn’t Greg. For just a moment her heart stopped. _Another accident—_ She set aside the automatic reaction, gathered her wits and said quietly, “Can I help you?”

The man offered her a charming smile. “You looked a little lonely. I thought I’d come over to keep you company.”

Dana hid her profound relief. “I’m quite all right.” She made it an obvious dismissal. The man’s smile didn’t waver.

“Let me buy you a drink at least.”

“No thanks.” Time for her to leave; she had no desire to wrangle with someone who couldn’t take even broad hints. “Have a pleasant evening.” She rose and picked up her coat from the back of her chair.

“Uh--wait,” the man got to his feet. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

Dana shook her head. She put on her coat and turned to go, to find she faced Greg. He’d just come in, his pea jacket and muffler covered with half-melted snowflakes. He put out a hand, drew it back.

“Hey, where . . .” His voice trailed off. He shot a lightning glance at the other man, then at her, a keen, assessing stare. Dana felt her gut tighten with dread.

“Did you set this up?” The words came out before she could stop them. Greg’s eyes widened. He swallowed and darted another look at the man.

“Gardener, I--I don’t know this guy, I just--just got here.” He tried to sound humorous, but his voice was tight with anxiety.

“You know as well as I do you could have arranged this beforehand. You chose our meeting place—“ She stopped, horrified to find tears stung her eyes. Before they could fall she snatched up her purse and pushed past Greg toward the door. It was the wrong thing to do, she knew it was, but she couldn’t endure another heartbreak at the hands of someone she still loved.

“Gardener— _dammit!_ Dana, _wait!_ ” He caught up with her at the door as she was forced to stand aside for a large group of people coming in. “I didn’t arrange anything, I’m just late because the traffic’s bad and my damn phone is dead!” He hauled it out and shoved it at her. “Check for yourself!”

She didn’t look at it. “I want to believe you, but I know—“ She drew in a shaky breath. “I know you need to test people—“

“ _Jesus!_ I’m not—“ He stuffed the phone back in his pocket and scrubbed a hand over his face. “It doesn’t matter what I say, does it? You won’t believe me.”

Dana heard the bitterness in his words. Appalled, she forced herself to think and not just react.

“If . . . if you tell me now you didn’t do it, I’ll believe you.”

“Even if you really don’t.”

“ _Non_.” She reached out, put a hand on his sleeve. “I wouldn’t do that, Greg.”

He looked down. There was a brief silence. “I didn’t arrange anything. I’m not testing you.” The terseness in his words, his willingness to tell her directly without evasion, convinced her he was truthful.

Dana nodded. “Okay.” She took her hand away. “I should go now.”

“No, you should stay and have something—“ He broke off when the other man came up to them.

“Hey, didn’t mean to get the lady upset. If I’d known she was with someone else--”

Greg glared at him. “Apology unneeded. Get lost.”

Dana took the opportunity the distraction provided and slipped through the door, only to have Greg’s voice stop her. “Running away isn’t something you usually do.” He sounded almost angry now. She turned to face him and felt the snowflakes on her face, in her hair. He glared at her, his expression both annoyed and pleading. After a few moments she came back inside and walked with him to another table, since her original seat had been claimed by now. She struggled to keep her thoughts coherent; the last ten minutes had shaken her badly, and she needed the routine of eating dinner to help her calm down.

They had their usual meal—burgers and a pile of fries, though neither appealed to her tonight. She refused a beer and stuck with mineral water.

“If you’re worried about driving back to Philly, you can stay at my place. No strings attached.” Greg pushed some fries toward her. “Eat.” She took a fry and munched it. He rolled his eyes. “You can have more than one at a time, you know.”

“I’d like that. To stay at your place tonight, I mean.” Dana selected another fry. “On the couch.”

“Sure, take all the fun out of it.” He sipped his beer. “I’ll take the couch, you can have the bed.”

She shook her head. “The couch is fine. Is it all right if I have a fire in the fireplace?”

There was a moment of silence. Then, “you don’t have to ask. Fuck’s _sake_ , Gardener. You’re not a guest.” The genuine affront in his tone made her smile. Greg stared at her and then exhaled slowly, just a small soft sound, but she heard it. “So you can still turn up the corners of your mouth. Good to know.”

With leftovers boxed, they headed out before the music started--a first for them, but the weather showed no sign of improvement. Dana drove to Greg’s place, as he’d taken a cab to the club. It was a short trip across town, but by the time they arrived she was glad she’d agreed to stay overnight. The streets had acquired a light glaze of snow and freezing rain and had grown more treacherous. At least there was a parking spot close to the apartment house, so they didn’t have to navigate blocks of slippery sidewalks. When they reached Greg’s door he took out his keys, paused, looked down at Dana, and kissed her cheek.

“Thanks.”

“For what?” Her skin tingled from the touch of his lips.

“For not running away.” He gave her a brief intent look, then put the key in the lock and opened the door.

The apartment hadn’t changed much since she’d left it six months ago. It was a bit dustier, a little more cluttered, but clearly James and Amos had been keeping order to some extent. Dana took off her coat and remembered standing in this spot six months previous. She’d just left her keys on the hall table and found herself unable to leave as she fought against fury and grief, terrified it was the last thing she’d ever do in Greg’s home.

Dana let the memory sweep through, then draped her coat over a chair and took a seat on the couch. Greg had disappeared, probably into the kitchen to get a beer. She looked around, saw the fireplace was set up with wood and kindling.

It didn’t take long to get a good blaze started. She held her hands to the warmth, a little surprised to find she was trembling. Part of her feared a disastrous outcome; she’d spent months struggling with at times overwhelming pain, and now she was afraid of what might happen next, some mistake or poorly chosen word that would destroy the fragile détente they’d created.

On a quiet sigh she got up and brushed the dust from her front, turned and found Greg watching her. He sat in his wheelchair, the one she’d asked Amos to get for him with her money. It was a sports model with canted wheels and a low back, the seat fitted with a cushion. He’d removed his prosthesis, the empty leg of his sweat pants folded back untidily and tucked into the waistband.

Neither of them spoke for a few moments. Dana broke the silence. “I—I hope you don’t mind.”

“I said you don’t have to ask.” Greg sent her a fierce glance, then looked away. Without another word he rolled to the couch and transferred over, a process he accomplished fairly quickly. No doubt he’d been doing it for some time now. “You’re gonna join me, I hope.”

Dana realized her shoulders were tight. She rose and moved to the couch, took a seat and sent up a wordless prayer to whomever might be listening: _let this go well_.


	21. chapter twenty one

She’s back. And yet she’s not—not really. And that’s the problem of the moment.

Greg sits in his corner of the couch and watches Gardener as she adds a log to the fire she started earlier, and he has to admit it cheers up the room considerably. She crouches on the hearth as she puts the screen in place, and the line of her thigh, the curve of her calf, her slender foot, all look so familiar he has to force himself to put his attention on something else. To no avail however; she resumes her seat on the couch next to him, not touching but close. She wears a soft oversized scarlet sweater, a pair of black leggings, thick warm socks (a pair of his own he’s loaned her)—different from her usual attire, but it suits her. She looks younger, more vulnerable.

“Would you like a beer?” Her clear, gentle voice sounds pleasant in the quiet room. He nods and watches her rise up and head into the kitchen. While she’s away he turns on the tv and puts it on pro wrestling, cranks the volume up a bit. When she returns she has two beers and a plate with cheese, crackers and apple slices. She puts the food on the seat between them—a convenient excuse to move farther away, no doubt—and settles in.

“Never knew you were a wrestling fan.” He takes a big swallow of pale ale. For once he doesn’t really want it, but it’s something to do other than push everything to the floor and pull her into his arms.

“I’ve never really watched it before.” She selects a cracker, puts some cheese on it. “But you like it.”

“That’s an educated guess.” He’s intrigued by this statement. Gardener glances at him and offers a slight smile.

“You sometimes watched it in the evenings at my place, you know.” She nibbles the cracker.

“Eat the whole thing,” he snaps, “you’re too skinny,” and regrets the words as soon as they leave his lips; he winces at what she’ll say. Instead she sets down the cracker and reaches out to take his hand. Her fingers are warm and gentle. Her thumb traces a circle on his pulse, a gesture so familiar he trembles.

“Thank you.” She doesn’t let go, not right away. Instead they watch coordinated mayhem on the screen.

“Bet you’re not gonna finish that,” he dares to say after a time. Gardener picks up the cracker and puts the whole thing in her mouth. Greg gives her an appraising stare. “Smartass.”

“Sometimes.” She takes a sip of beer. With her face in profile it’s easier to see how much weight she’s lost, the little hollow in her cheek. These signs distress him more than anything else because he knows what’s caused them. The situation prompts him to do what he always does—makes things worse.

“So this is how it’s gonna be from now on. You over there, me over here.” He looks away as he speaks, unable to summon the courage to watch her reaction.

“Greg . . .” She sighs softly. “This will take time. We can’t just go back to the way things were before the accident—“

“Before I kicked you out. Be honest.”

“Very well then, before you kicked me out.” Her voice is neutral, quiet. “We’re doing well, all things considered.”

He can’t help but smile just a little at that pronouncement. “If that’s true I’d hate to see what things would be like otherwise.”

Gardener doesn’t answer him for a few moments. “Yes.” The bleak tone stops him cold. “But I’m here, and I’m talking to you. That’s . . . that’s all I can do right now.”

“You’re still planning to leave.”

“No . . .” Her tone is thoughtful, considering. “No, I don’t think so. The situation’s changed now.”

He can’t help but poke at that pronouncement. “You think so.”

“Yes.”

“You’ll have a lot of unpacking to do.”

Gardener all but shrugs. “I started with some spring cleaning first. So at least my closets and attic are cleared out.”

Greg can’t stop a grunt of mild amusement. “Huh. Very efficient of you.”

“Let’s just say it’s an unintended side benefit.” She looks almost smug as she eats some cheese. He’s swamped by a wave of amused tenderness so strong it takes his breath. When he can speak, he says

“I miss you.”

She turns her face from his, so he can only see her expression in profile—but just before she does so, he sees the longing and pain his words cause. “I miss you too,” she says after a moment. Her voice is soft, but there’s no mistaking the deep emotion in the simple words.

And that’s where they leave it.

She ends up on the couch despite his attempts to persuade her otherwise, settled under a blanket with one of the extra pillows. In the flickering light of the banked fire she looks tired and vulnerable. “Good night,” she whispers, but he can’t answer her. His night won’t be good, he knows that much.

But for once he’s wrong. After he makes it to bed he sleeps hard, something he hasn’t done in months. When he wakes it’s morning; a few stray beams of sunlight filter through the east window. Slowly he comes to, breathes in the fragrance of fresh coffee and toast as his belly rumbles.

It takes longer now to get out of bed and on his feet, mainly because he’s gone from ‘feet’ to ‘foot’. Still, he’s better at it now than in the beginning. He even manages a quick shower and a rummage for clean clothes, which means he can trundle into the kitchen and look somewhat presentable. Gardener isn’t there though; she’s in the living room on the couch, with her phone in hand. An empty plate on the coffee table holds a knife and a few crumbs.

“Good morning. Did you sleep well?” She glances up at him, her grey gaze full of concern and warmth. It’s not a perfunctory question, she really wants to know. It occurs to him then that she doesn’t do pleasantries, aside from social situations. He’s come to count on that quality in her . . . except when he doesn’t.

“Need coffee,” he mutters, and rolls back to the kitchen to fill a cup and make some toast. When he returns Gardener helps him get settled, matter of fact and unobtrusive about it as always.

“Why?” He says it without thinking. She looks at him, her expression both exasperated and gentle.

“Because I love you.”

He blinks at her, astonished that she’d admit it. “But if—if that’s still true—“

“It’ll always be true. Just because someone hurts you, you don’t stop loving them. I know you understand that idea very well.”

He does, but he won’t say so. “You’ve been hurt before this.” She nods. “Someone you—you cared about.”

She takes her time answering. “I didn’t know what real love was at the time. Neither did he, as I found out.”

Something like terror grips his heart. What if—

“Gregory.” Gardener holds his hand in hers once more. He wants to close his eyes, afraid to reveal too much. “You’re capable of loving and being loved. You know what the real thing is.” She tries to smile, and it’s the most heartbreaking thing he’s ever seen. “I know you love me. That’s what makes this so hard.”

There’s nothing he can say to that.

After a while Gardener takes his cup and hers to the kitchen and brings back fresh coffee. They sit together, talk a bit. Things are better than they were before; no blank silences, no setting aside questions. Gardener is there with him, as much as she can be--and there’s the rub. They’re still on opposite sides of a chasm and he’s done major damage to the connecting bridge, because he’s made it nearly impassable. For the first time he thinks of Stacy and her betrayal, and maybe now that he’s committed an act similar in nature (if more deliberate), he might begin to understand a bit how she felt.

After Gardener leaves, goes off to her life and her work and her place, he sits on the couch with his empty cup and plate and knows he has to find a way to make repairs. If he doesn’t, he’ll be alone. But even worse, she will be too.


	22. chapter twenty two

_November 21st_

Dana set down her pen and rubbed tired eyes. She’d been chipping away at this paper for hours now, and what she’d written seemed trite and uninspired. Her belly rumbled with hunger, and her left leg had given her warning spasms for some time. She needed to get up, move around, make something to eat so she could take her meds. And yet she couldn’t do it. It didn’t matter; nothing mattered.

 _That’s the depression talking._ She leaned back in her chair and stretched her arms, glanced at the time. It was late, close to midnight, and well past her usual bedtime. The thought of another night alone held no appeal, but neither did staying up till the small hours to write.

It had been a good week, all things considered. She’d acquired two new patients, one of whom showed a bit of progress within the first session; the clothes and items she’d cleared out had been taken away to a donation center; and she’d actually had dinner with Greg at his place and stayed over, something she’d enjoyed. He had too; she knew him well enough by now to read the signs of true emotion under the façade he presented to the world. Still, she continued to proceed with caution, as much for herself as for him.

 _Call him_. The thought slipped into her mind before she was aware of its presence. She glanced at the phone. “No,” she said aloud, and swung her gaze back to the monitor. But a moment later she had the phone in hand. She stared down at it.

 _He might not want to talk to you. This could make things worse_. Apprehension welled up within. The relationship had begun to heal, but the wound was still vulnerable; a single bad experience could tear it open once more.

She remembered Greg glaring at her, accusing her of running away. She’d felt hurt, even as she acknowledged the truth in what he’d said. Now she was doing the same thing in a slightly different form.

“He came to me first,” she said aloud, and hit speed dial before she could reconsider. Two rings later the phone was answered, but not by Greg.

“Doctor Gardener.” Amos’s voice was low, a bit rough, steady and calm. Dana sat up a bit.

“Amos? Forgive me for disturbing you, but I--is Greg—Doctor House—is he—“

“He’s fine, doctor. I’m just here to check on things. Hold on, I’ll get him. He’s still up.”

A few moments of muffled noises, and then Greg said “Gardener—something’s—is something wrong—what--” His voice was harsh, anxious.

“Greg.” She let go a breath. “Nothing’s wrong. I just—just wanted to call.”

There was a brief, surprised silence. “’kay.”

Dana swallowed the lump in her throat. “How are you?”

“’mfine.” He didn’t sound convinced of that.

“What . . . what are you doing?” She wanted a mental image of him, not some memory but himself as he was in that moment.

“Music.” He paused to drink something, a quick slurp of what was probably bourbon or whiskey. “You’re up late.”

“Writing. I couldn’t sleep and decided to work on an old project.” Dana took a chance. “I was lonely for you.”

Greg said nothing for a few moments. Then, “I’m putting you on speaker.”

After a brief silence she heard him begin to play. He had the soft pedal down, an unusually considerate action on his part.

_ever since she moved, took all the happiness_

_ever since she left my life in a mess_

_ever since she left my old address_

_can’t you see, you left my life in a mess_

_and I must confess_

_me minus you equals loneliness_

Dana sat in her quiet office and listened. From the roughness in his voice, the hesitant way he sang, she knew this song was important to him. And to her too; he could tell her things in music he couldn’t in any other way.

_all the people, the whole neighborhood_

_used to tell me, ‘bout how you been so good_

_and all the little places that we used to go_

_that’s the very same places I don’t wanna go no more_

_really drain me so_

_me minus you equals loneliness_

Eventually he fell silent. Dana took another chance.

“I . . . I feel the same way.”

“Then come over.” There was an urgency in his low voice that caught at her.

“Greg, it’s—it’s late—“

“So what? It’s Friday. You can stay for the weekend.” He paused. “Unless you don’t—“

She sighed softly. “I _do_ want to come over, but I’m not safe to drive. My night vision isn’t good.”

“Bullshit.” He sounded angry. “That’s just an excuse.”

“No, it’s the truth. I’m having trouble driving after sundown.” Dana didn’t bother to keep the hurt out of her words. “If I didn’t want to see you I’d say so.”

“Well--take a cab then! You can afford it. You—you paid my hospital bill like it was a stay at a Motel 6.”

“Of course.” She was puzzled by his annoyance. “I knew you’d be in physical therapy for some time and not able to work. I could help out, so I did.”

Greg exhaled, a long, slow breath—not quite a sigh. “It’s really that simple for you, isn’t it.” He paused. “Then come over in the morning. Please.”

Dana swallowed on a throat tight with sudden emotion. “All . . . all right.”

“You’re crying.’ He paused. “What—why are—“

“I’m not. I’ll—I’ll leave early. Would you like me to bring anything—“

“Just bring yourself. No work.”

She thought of her caseload. “Greg . . .”

He made a derisive noise. “You’re using it as a shield.”

That was true enough. A little shiver went through her. “All right. No work.”

“Uh . . . really?” His astonishment was clear. Dana couldn’t help but smile.

“It’s a valid observation.”

Another silence, and then he chuckled. “So practical.”

Her smile widened a bit. “Sometimes.”

“Go to bed. You can make breakfast here, if you like. Wilson will buy enough groceries to feed an army by the time you arrive.” There was a subtle caress in the peremptory tone.

“I . . . I will.” She closed her eyes. “Would you . . . would you play for me again before I go?”

It took a couple of bars, but she recognized ‘Goodnight, Sweetheart’, which brought back her smile. He played it slow and gentle, with rolling chords. When he was done she said softly “Good night,” and ended the call.

She didn’t fall asleep right away, just lay in the darkness and tried to make a to-do list for the morning, but after a few minutes she gave up and thought about Greg. A part of her feared this was a mistake, but if it was, it was better to do something than nothing.

 _We’ll sort things out in good time._ The thought surprised her. She remembered Greg singing about a loneliness as deep and strong as her own, and drifted into sleep on a curious sense of peace.

_‘Loneliness,’ Dr. John_


	23. chapter twenty three

_November 22nd_

The sun was well up when Dana arrived at Greg’s place. She found her set of keys where James’s text message had said they’d be, tucked away on the molding above the door. She entered the apartment as quietly as she could, mindful of sleeping neighbors, closed the door behind her and picked up her bags, then made her way through the living room, intent on stowing away the fresh groceries she’d bought on the journey up from Philly. James might have done some shopping, but his tastes and hers differed in some significant ways.

As she gained the kitchen, it was to find Greg there first. He stood in front of a cabinet, clad in his shabby bathrobe with the front open, balanced on his remaining leg as he searched for something. Dana paused in the doorway, her heart in her throat. It was the second time she’d seen him unclothed since his surgery, but this felt more like the first. The immensity of his loss struck hard.

She must have made some noise because he turned his head, a sharp, startled movement. His vivid gaze raked over her, but he said nothing. Dana swallowed on a dry throat. She wanted to wrap her arms around him, feel his lean, solid warmth against her, and at the moment it would be the last thing he’d do. She studied his expression. It held anxiety, defiance, anger, and deep beneath it all a profound longing that broke her heart, but also offered comprehension. She understood more clearly now what it would take to bring them together. As was often the case with this man, it wouldn’t be easy . . . but she was ready to try. Her own fear eased at the realization.

“Good morning.” She wanted to smile, to reassure him, but it wasn’t in her to dissemble; he’d pick up on the dishonesty and run like hell. Greg’s gaze slid away from hers. Still silent, he lowered his body into the chair, backed up and turned to leave the kitchen. As he moved past her, she reached out and put her hand on his arm. He froze, his face averted; she could feel him tremble at her touch.

“Please come back and have breakfast with me,” she said softly. After a few moments he gave a single nod, then pulled away from her and fled down the hall.

Half an hour later he came in just as she’d poured a mug of coffee. He hovered in the doorway, his fierce gaze pinned to hers. Dana set the mug aside, took another one from the shelf and filled it as well, set it on the island within easy reach if Greg wanted it, then turned back to her own breakfast. She sipped her coffee before she searched for the butler’s tray James kept with the extra cookie sheets in one of the bottom cabinets.

“I brought some prosciutto to go with the croissants,” she said into the silence. With care she put two plates on the tray. “And fontina.” He said nothing, just watched her. “Would you like to eat here, or in the living room?”

His answer was to back out and disappear. No surprises there; she knew he would prefer a less intimate atmosphere. She took both mugs and put them on the tray, added another plate and stacked it with food and a few paper napkins from the basket on the counter, and took it all with her.

Greg had chosen his usual spot on the couch. He was wedged into the corner—partly to use the back for support, but also the better to watch her, Dana knew. She set everything on the coffee table and glanced at him, took her plate and chose a croissant half, some ham and fontina. She claimed her mug as well, and sat back. “Where’s the remote?” She kept her tone casual, matter of fact. “I’d like to check the forecast.” She didn’t bother to ask if he wanted help with the plate; he’d either chide her, or just deal with the situation.

Still silent, Greg dug the remote out from between two couch cushions and offered it. His fingers brushed her palm as she took it from him. Dana resisted the urge to capture his hand in hers. Instead she turned on the tv, found the local news, lowered the sound, and began to stack ham and cheese on her croissant.

“So you’re eating now.” Greg’s voice was rough and a little loud in the quiet room. Dana licked her fingers.

“I’ve been eating for a long time. Since birth, to be exact.”

He made an impatient noise. “Don’t be a smartass. You know what I mean.”

She sipped her coffee and wished she’d put more milk in it. “I’ve been working on moving away from behaviors that foster depression.” She set down her mug and caught a glimpse of Greg’s face. He swallowed and his eyes widened before he looked away, but she saw his fear once more. On impulse she reached out and took his hand in hers. “You are _not_ a destructive behavior. Far from it. That’s . . . that’s why I’m here.”

He stared down at their hands. After a moment his fingers curled around hers in a firm grip, as if he wanted to keep her there by any means. “You . . . you’re sure about that.” The hesitation in his words made her heart ache.

“Oh yes.” She leaned in and pressed a light kiss to his cheek. He turned his head so that their lips met. It was almost chaste, but the fire banked behind it told her otherwise. When it ended he rested his forehead against hers for a few moments. She felt him shiver.

“’kay.” She could barely hear him, but his clasp tightened a little.

They watched the news as they ate breakfast together. Dana dared to move closer, so that her hip rested against his. That earned her a sidelong glance.

“Never figured you had a stump fetish, m’lady.” The sarcasm stung her into an impulsive reply.

“I don’t care about that, except for everything you had to go through—“ She stopped as memory shocked her for a moment, full of anguish and fear. “I don’t care,” she said again, and drank the last of her coffee. “I’m—I’m going to the kitchen to get a fresh cup, would you—“

“Dana.” His quiet voice cut through her babble. Her heart thumped hard and she closed her eyes on the stupid, foolish tears that welled up suddenly.

“You wouldn’t let me be with you when you—you went through hell, and I’m—I’m _angry_ at you for locking me out, dammit! All that time, knowing you were—you were alone—“ She pulled away from him, grabbed her mug and almost ran to the kitchen.

 _What is wrong with you?_ she scolded herself as she fixed another coffee and put in plenty of milk this time. _He’ll kick you out if you keep this up! You know he can’t handle emotion when you hurl it at him that way. You_ must _control yourself!_

By the time she returned she’d calmed down, at least outwardly. Without looking at Greg she resumed her seat, conscious he stared at her. She put a plate of danish on the tray. When she leaned back, he took her hand in his and placed it on what was left of his thigh.

It was the last thing she expected him to do. She drew in a hitching, unsteady breath and found herself completely undone.

For a long time she kept her face buried in the join of his neck and shoulder as she sobbed, her body shaking. After a while she became aware of Greg’s arms around her. They lay on the couch together, and he was spooned behind her. She started to sit up, ashamed of her wild outburst, but his arms tightened gently.

“Stay where you are.” His breath was warm on her skin. “If you want to make yourself useful, hand me a danish.”

That startled a choke of weak laughter out of her. She did as he asked, and dared to press close against him as he munched. “You’d—you’d better not get c-crumbs in my hair.”

“Oh yeah? What do you plan to do if that happens?”

“Trade places and do the same to you.”

He chuckled. “Like to see you try.”

“I’ll wait till you’re tied up.” She took his free hand in hers.

“You . . . you still want to. Tie me up, I mean.” The anxious edge in his voice caught at her.

“Of course I do.” It came out in a rough whisper. “Oh, of course I do, my beautiful man. That will never change.”

He was still for a moment. “A lot less beautiful now.”

“ _Non_.” She brought his fingers to her lips. “Not to me.”

He said nothing, but she felt him give a quiet sigh and relax against her, little by little.


	24. chapter twenty four

James entered the apartment as quietly as possible and shuffled into the kitchen, intent on finding the coffeemaker. He had a full schedule ahead, the usual Saturday stuff—shopping, laundry, a little cleaning if he could manage it. House was worse than a cat about the vacuum cleaner . . .

To his surprise, the carafe held fresh hot coffee. He stared at it, then did a slow turn. There was a box of doughnuts and pastries on the counter, as well as two grocery bags placed side by side next to the fridge. James paused. He moved forward, peeked inside one of the bags. It contained various non-perishable items and a bag of coffee. After a moment he went back into the living room.

House lay on the couch. Spooned in front of him was Dana. She was asleep in House’s arms, her face tearstained and swollen, but with an expression of peace James hadn’t seen for a long time. House glanced up at him but said nothing. He looked both anxious and content.

James made his way back to the kitchen. He scratched his head, yawned, grabbed a mug and filled it with coffee. As he stirred in creamer and sugar, he reassessed his agenda. Clearly there’d been a major sea change. Cleaning was out, for the moment at least. So was shopping; the fridge now held some fresh vegetables, fruit, meat and dairy, enough for the next couple of days. House still needed dry goods like toilet paper and laundry soap though, so a trip to the store later on would be worthwhile. No doubt the two cuddled together in the living room would require some time alone.

With a quiet sigh he sipped his coffee, opened the box and snagged a doughnut, diet be damned, and went off to update his shopping list.

Later he considered the situation as he ambled around the local Acme. It was clear the impasse had been broken somehow, but the outcome was still in question despite the apparent breakthrough. House’s capacity for self-sabotage was immense, and Dana’s ability to forgive . . . well, no doubt it had limits. She’d been ready to move out just a couple of weeks ago. But she had also forced House to come to her first—no mean accomplishment.

 _Maybe that’s part of the deal when you’re a dominatrix, bending everyone to your will._ James snorted at the thought and grabbed an economy jug of laundry detergent. Both parties were stubborn as hell, and he wasn’t about to get between them any more than necessary. He glanced down at his list and paused, struck by another realization: he’d have to go back to his place if he didn’t want to listen to a couple having sex all weekend. Unless . . . “I should buy some noise-canceling headphones,” he said aloud, and decided to make a stop at the electronics store on the way home. He didn’t want to admit even to himself that he intended to stick around in case the big reunion went south.

The apartment was quiet when he unlocked the door and brought in the bags. The couch was empty; presumably both parties had decamped to the bedroom.

But he was wrong. When he came into the kitchen, it was to find Dana setting up what appeared to be a sort of informal buffet. House sat in his wheelchair—a sight so rare James blinked. That earned him a glare.

“Never seen a cripple before, I take it.” House tossed the oranges he’d juggled back into the bowl on the island.

“I’m . . . surprised to find brunch on offer.” James kept his tone neutral.

“Uh huh. Go bring in the rest of your bargains and maybe by the time you’re done, there’ll be something left over.”

Dana glanced over at him then. She looked a bit better than she had earlier. She said nothing, just smiled a little, a silent reassurance.

When he returned, a plate had been set out among the covered dishes. Both Dana and House were gone. James availed himself of still-hot food and took a seat at the island. As he ate, he considered the situation once more. To his secret shame, he’d bought the headphones. Of course it would be wiser to just go home, but the reasons to stay that he’d come up with at the store still held true: if Dana decided the relationship was over, House would need someone there to pick up the pieces.

 _I have confidence in Dana,_ James thought as he polished off the last of the scrambled eggs. _But she’s up against House’s fatalism. I hope she can get him to listen to her._

After he’d cleaned up the kitchen and put the leftovers away, he opted for a spot on the couch with remote in hand. It had been a while since he’d had the tv to himself; he could catch up on a couple of his shows or look for some sports. He settled on a channel and was out cold in less than five minutes.

_(“You never could resist a nap after shopping.” Amber offered him a smirk, brows lifted. “No staying power.”_

_“Bite your tongue.” He paused. “Wait. You’re . . . you’re –“_

_“Dead.” She sat back, arms folded. “Trust you to state the obvious.”_

_“What are you doing here?”_

_“Just checking in.” Her pale gaze glittered with humor. “You could use some help.”_

_“Not me,” James said in protest. “House—“_

_“Pfft.” Amber looked down her nose at him. “Handy excuse. What’s in this for you?”_

_“Me? I’m—I’m doing this for House—“_

_Amber’s smile faded. They sat in silence for a moment. “Try again,” she said finally._

_“Are you suggesting this is prurient interest?” James felt that familiar combination of annoyance and affection._

_“More like vested.” Amber stretched a bit, and gave James an amused look when she caught him watching her breasts. “You’ve put a lot of time and effort into House. It’s only right you should get some payback.”_

_“I don’t . . .” James trailed off. “You really think that?”_

_“Some part of you does.” She sat up and pressed her lips to his, a fierce yet tender kiss that made his heart ache with remembered joy and pain. “Live your own life,” she whispered, and then she was gone. )_

He left them a note—the old-fashioned paper kind, since House had a tendency to delete texts without reading them.

_Enjoy your weekend. --W_


	25. chapter twenty five

She’s back. And maybe this time, he won’t fuck things up and she’ll stay.

They’re in the bedroom, taking an afternoon snooze. Well, Dana probably is. He’s too wired and scared and exultant to sleep; he wants to feel every second of her snuggled against him, her breath warm on his shoulder.

“Greg . . .” Her fingers stroke his cheek. “I’m not going anywhere.”

But it takes a little more persuasion and finally, an Ativan with some water to get him to relax. Dana keeps hold of his hand the whole time, and when he lies down she curls up against him. The feel of her gives him hope—spurious, possibly. But he can’t help it.

“Tell me what you’re thinking,” she says after a time. Her voice is soft in the quiet room. He trails his fingertips over her arm, up and down, almost an absent gesture, but he is intensely aware of the heat and softness of her under his touch.

“Tie me up.” The words come out before he can stop them. She lifts her face to his, her grey eyes searching in the soft shadows. Then she nods.

There’s a set of blue silk ties in the top drawer of the nightstand. She’d bought them some time ago, and even after the accident he couldn’t bring himself to get rid of them. Now he’s glad he didn’t.

With care she helps him undress, then binds his wrists and ankle to the five-point harness hidden beneath the mattress—a piece of hardware they’d agreed on for both households. When she reaches his truncated leg, she takes what’s left of his thigh in her hands and holds it. Her touch is so gentle, and yet there’s no pity or coddling. When she reaches for a small pillow and tucks it in place, he relaxes with a silent sigh. He still has trouble with muscle spasms at times. Support will help; she knows it and is okay with that knowledge.

There’s a flogger in the drawer too, a gift she’d given him along with the ties. Before she uses it, she takes off her clothes and lets them drop to the floor—unimportant barriers to what’s real, what’s no longer between them. Then she leans down and kisses him, a scorcher that puts to shame all the fantasies he’s kept in his secret heart since he pushed her away. When it ends, she draws in a breath and he feels her tremble just a little, and it hits him that she’s as scared and excited as he is. Now they are equals, even if he’s the one who’s bound and passive.

“Are you ready?” she whispers. He looks up at her.

“Yeah . . . yeah. You?”

Her smile glimmers in the shadowed room. “Oh yes.”

It’s a familiar routine now—the feel of the doeskin thongs as they gently slap and trail over his chest and belly; the touch of her lips and tongue on his nipples, just above his navel, and then the root of his penis as it starts to rise. After further stimulation she puts some oil in her palm and works him. He arches his back and moves with her, and knows that odd, familiar sense of relief that in this moment, he can allow her to be the one in control. When his release comes it rolls through him like a great wave, sweet and slow. He hears Dana’s voice in his ear as she whispers his name, and it’s like his music—something he’s never known with anyone else, a bright spark that opens his heart and brings out the emotion he’s always so careful to keep hidden.

“You didn’t get anything from this,” he says later, when she’s freed him and lies in his embrace under the quilt. Dana puts her hand on his chest.

“I don’t think that’s true.” She rubs him gently.

“What could you possibly . . .” He falls silent when she kisses him.

“I was able to see you. All of you, with just me and you, no sessions, no analysis. It’s . . . it’s been a long time and I . . .” To his dismay he hears tears in her words. Again? She’s crying again? “I didn’t think I’d ever see you this way . . .”

“Hey, come on.” Now he feels helpless. “You’re not supposed to cry after sex, dammit.”

That earns him a somewhat watery laugh. “Who told you that?”

They lie together for a while, content just to be close. Gradually Dana’s breathing slows, deepens; she’s asleep. Greg looks down at her. It’s easy now to see the dark smudges under her eyes, the lines of weariness etched in her features. She’s suffered because of him, and yet here she is. Her trust and love both humble and terrify him. He knows he’s not worth any of it. But he’ll take it all the same.

It’s growing dark when she wakes up and stretches a little, then lifts her head and kisses the hinge of his jaw. His belly takes the opportunity to rumble. Dana chuckles.

“Want to order in?”

“You brought provisions.” He cups her breast.

“You’d rather have pizza and onion rings. And beer.” She settles into his touch.

“Right now I’d rather have you.”

This time he’s the one who does the giving, though he also receives the immense privilege of exploring her body while he does so. When he reaches her core, her hands come to rest on his shoulders. She makes a noise, something between a little ragged moan and a sigh, that goes straight through him. So he brings her to the edge twice, then topples her over and enjoys her shudder as she climaxes and calls his name.

They end up in the shower together. He has to sit on the built-in bench, but Dana just takes on the chore of getting him clean while he fondles her soapy curves; she helps him towel off and get dressed too, as matter of fact and casual as if she’s been doing it for years.

“I’m not your dad,” he reminds her as she offers him a clean tee shirt.

“Thank god for that.” She pulls on her leggings. “I’m not into Oedipal relationships. Or Freud’s theories. Are you still ordering from the same place?”

“You’re used to caring for someone. I don’t—“ He stops, uncertain what to say that won’t drive her away again.

“Greg.” She comes up to him, sits beside the chair so they’re eye to eye. “This situation is completely different than the one with _mon pere_. He was my father and required my care. I loved him, but also felt obligated. I don’t feel that way with you. I want to be here.” She smiles at him. He reaches out to touch her cheek.

“You—you’re sure.”

She nods. “Yes. Are you?”

He studies her face. After a few moments he nods. “Yeah.”

They find Wilson’s note. Greg rolls his eyes, but he’s pleased. Dreads and the girl are gone for the weekend too, so no one will show up to bother them. He glances over at Dana, who’s on the phone with the pizza place. He’s still tempted to pinch himself to see if this is really happening. Then she looks at him and smiles, and his worry fades a little.

Later on, after they’ve eaten their fill and had enough beer to make them both a little buzzed and content, he dares to ask “Tell me what happens after the weekend.”

Dana rests her head on his shoulder. “We need to get more firewood.”

“I meant you and me.”

Her hand comes to rest on his arm. “I have to go back to Philadelphia. But you could come with me, if you like.” She hesitates. “About Thanksgiving . . .”

“Go on,” he prompts when she doesn’t continue.

“If . . . if you want me to come over . . . what shall I bring?”

Her question silences him for several moments. “ _If_ I want you to come over.” A surge of anxiety makes him snap the words out. “So all this was some exercise—“

“Greg.” She puts her hand over his. “No. What I mean is, if you already have plans—“

“Stop it.” He hears the harshness but lets it stand. “I don’t have any plans aside from drinking beer and watching games. And copping feels off you.”

She doesn’t say anything. When he can bring himself to look at her, she’s blushing. He is both surprised and amused. “You’re all red.”

Her blush intensifies, but her smile widens too. She says nothing, just puts his arm around her, takes his hand in hers and settles in. Greg looks down at her. After a moment he kisses the top of her head. “Better learn to roast a turkey this time, or Wilson will hang around the whole day.”


	26. chapter twenty six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the end of Hurricane Season. Many thanks to everyone who read and reviewed so faithfully, it means a lot. There is a sequel planned, I just need time to write it :) It's great fun to write for House and Dana, and still a source of pleased astonishment that you all like their story too. At any rate, hope you enjoy this chapter. -Brig

_(When the moment hits, he feels his body lift as kinetic energy is transferred from the object in motion to the objects at rest. He rises in silent weightless flight, but only for the space of half a breath; then the metal surrounding him groans and shudders, absorbs massive stress until it breaks its molecular bonds and warps the interior space into new and deadly shapes. He caromes around like a pinball, bouncing from place to place, sharp fresh agony exploding in his bad leg as he starts to realize what’s happened. Fear fills him up, followed by sudden blackness—_

yeah there’s a storm on the loose, sirens in my head

wrapped up in silence, all circuits are dead

cannot decode, my whole life spins into a frenzy

_When the dark lifts there’s a stink of burnt rubber and hot metal with a familiar, elusive coppery chaser. But there’s no noise . . . nothing except a song playing out somewhere—in his head? he can’t tell; it’s faint but clear._

I’m falling down the spiral, destination unknown

double-crossed messenger, all alone

can’t get no connection, can’t get through, where are you

 _He scrabbles to find a way out of his prison, despite the fact that movement causes overwhelming pain. He stops, fights to solve the problem, but only the music continues. Maybe there’s no way to escape . . . the possibility paralyzes him with terror. He can’t breathe now, his chest hurts—_ pneumothorax. _The word comes out of nowhere. This is bad, really bad._

when the hitman comes

he knows damn well he has been cheated

_A voice emerges from the murk—someone cursing in Farsi. For a moment he wonders if he’s stuck on some backwater base with his parents, but that makes no sense—Dad retired long before the Iran and Iraqi actions . . . The coppery smell is stronger now, and he can’t move his legs at all. ’Bad’ has become ‘catastrophic’ and there’s nothing he can do about it._

help, I’m steppin’ into the twilight zone

place is a madhouse, feels like being cloned

my beacon’s been moved under moon and star

where am I to go now that I’ve gone too far

_Slowly his perception rights itself. This is a dream about a real event—the accident at JFK. He fights to hang onto the fading memory; even in the maelstrom of pain and confusion, he can still feel the sensation of two legs, if for just a moment. A bitter swell of rage, fear and despair fills his heart and mind, so painful he can’t speak or even open his eyes. He curls in on himself, and lets the darkness take him._

so you will come to know

when the bullet hits the bone)

“Greg.” Two small hands cradle his face gently. “Wake up now.”

Gradually he drifts into consciousness, tries to open his eyes. They feel swollen for some reason. He squints a bit, makes out that he’s in his bedroom. It’s dark, with only the light from a lamp to illuminate things.

“What . . .” His throat is sore. “What time.”

There’s a moment’s silence. “A little after eight p.m.”

Evening . . . he frowns. Somehow that’s not right, he knows it isn’t. Slowly he tries to sit up. It’s difficult because his center of gravity has changed, and occasionally he still has trouble adjusting. Those small hands help him, their touch light but firm. Once he’s upright he turns his head a bit, surprised to discover he’s stiff and achy; his mouth is dry, and he’s thirsty. His belly rumbles, though he doesn’t really want anything to eat.

“You’ve been here for a while.” The quiet voice is close. “I’ll get you some water. You must be hungry too.”

Blindly he reaches out, in sudden need of confirmation: this has to be real. In response he’s gathered close. “I’m here,” Dana says, “I’m here, love,” and he presses his face into her hair, shaking. Something inside loosens, falls away at long last in her embrace, and all he can do is hold her, astonished and humbled at her presence.

“Come with me,” she says after a while. “Let’s get something to eat.”

They end up in the living room. It’s empty, to Greg’s distant surprise. “We moved everything over to Amos’s apartment.” Dana sets a tray on the coffee table. There are two plates, two forks and a knife, and two pies—one pumpkin, one apple. A container of whipped cream sits next to them. “I thought for today, you’d probably like to skip straight to dessert. I’ll make coffee if you want some.”

It’s the best meal he’s had in ages—sitting in the quiet, fire in the fireplace burning low and slow, a plateful of homemade pie and whipped cream . . . and Dana seated next to him, hair tied back in a ponytail, her face free of makeup. She takes a bite of apple pie and savors it, eyes closed.

“You . . . you didn’t go over for dinner.” He adds more cream to his slice of pumpkin.

“I stayed with you.”

He puts down his fork and stares at her. “How long?”

She sips her coffee. “I’m not sure. Since about three this morning, more or less.”

That can’t be right. “Three a.m.” Greg searches his memory, but nothing comes up. “What—I don’t—“

Dana sets her cup on the tray and gives him a direct look. Her grey eyes hold nothing but honesty, clear and calm. “I think that in part, you finally felt safe enough to let yourself start to come to terms with the accident, and the amputation.”

“I came to terms with it six months ago when I woke up and found my right leg missing.”

She tilts her head just a bit. “Did you?”

“Don’t do that!” he snaps. Now he feels cornered. “Explain.”

“In my opinion, you panicked and found temporary escape from the truth by accusing me, rather than acknowledging it was random chance.”

Her hypothesis makes sense. He wants to argue with her, but he’s got nothing to use against her statement. So he just eats some pie and says nothing.

“It’s understandable. None of us want to face the fact that we have no guarantees.” Dana offers him a slight smile, though her gaze is sober. “You know that already from plenty of past experience. It’s just taken you a while to work through it this time.”

Silence falls once more, but this time it’s companionable. Greg finishes off the pumpkin and takes some apple pie, suddenly hungry. Maybe he can convince Dreads to bring them some leftovers.

“I’ve decided to take a sabbatical,” Dana says after a while. That gets his attention.

“You’re quitting your job.”

“Sabbaticals are not quitting. They’re time off, as you well know.” She sits back with her coffee.

“You’re that stressed out because of me.” He knows provocative behavior is not a good idea, but he has to say it.

“It’s been a long six months for me too.” She sighs softly. “I’m tired in every way, Greg. I need time off, to rest and heal.”

“And I’m not included.”

She looks at him, her expression calm. “Only if you don’t wish to join me.”

“But you said. . . you’re going away.” The thought makes his stomach clench.

“No, that’s not it at all. I’d rather just stay at home with you. Maybe spend a week or two at the cottage now and then.” She reaches out, takes his hand. “What do you think?”

He considers his options. He has no real desire to return to medicine; for some time now he’s felt himself chafing at the restraints, even within the relative freedom of a consultancy. Travel has become increasingly difficult and exhausting as well. With the amputation, it’ll be even worse.

“Quantum physics,” he says aloud. It’s something he’s thought about for years. “A Ph.D.”

Dana nods, unsurprised; clearly she’s anticipated his answer. They’ve discussed it before, but mostly in passing. “Plenty of universities to choose from.”

“School costs money,” he reminds her.

“Advanced placement takes care of some expense. The rest . . .” She raises her brows a bit, a very Gallic expression. Greg lowers his, even as he feels a reluctant tug of amusement.

“So I’m to be a kept man.”

Dana’s smile widens. She sets aside her coffee, leans forward with care and kisses him. “Oh, I do hope so,” she whispers against his lips.

Much to his surprise, so does he.

_‘Twilight Zone,’ Golden Earring_


End file.
